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SCIENCE-FICTION
Contents for May, 1942, Vol. XXIX, No. 3
John W. Campbell, Jr., Editor, Catherine Tarrant,- Asst. Editor
Novelettes
ASYLUM A. E. van Vogt . . 8
"Among the thousands of stars, in the ages of time, somewhere,
some race must have developed interstellar travel. Why haven't
they visited us?” Maybe the answer is —
FOUNDATION Isaac Asimov ... 38
A hundred thousand men and women — scientists, they believed
themselves — worked on a project. The project they thought they
worked on was a fraud; the one they had really been assigned to —
THE PUSH OF A FINGER Alfred Bester ... 108
The destruction of the universe could come about because of a
very inconsequential thing — if it were misunderstood by the
right man —
Short Story
FOREVER IS NOT SO LONG F. Anton Reeds . . 34
If the much-sought knowledge of the future were attained — how
many could get from it the full flavor of what happiness it
allowed?
Serial
BEYOND THIS HORIZON— Anson MacDonald . 55
Second of two parts
Concluding a picture of a world where bejcweled and lace-
trimmed men with scented and painted nails were hard, light-
ning-fast gunmen at the slightest insult—
Article
THE BIRTH OF A SUPERSTITION .... Willy Ley ... . 98
Everybody now knows that the ancient Greeks could not see
blue, as modern man can. That “knowledge” came about in a
queer sort of way, and happens to be cockeyed!
Readers’ Departments
THE EDITOR’S PAGE 6
THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY 33
An Analysis of Readers’ Opinions.
IN TIMES TO COME 53
Department of Prophecy and Future Issues.
BOOK REVIEW 54
BRASS TACKS 104
Concerning Purely Personal Preferences.
Illustrations by M. Isip, Kramer, Orban, Rogers and Schneeman
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6
"OIL IS AMMUNITION"
The fact that fuel oil is rather handy stuff to
have around if you want naval vessels to operate,
and that gasoline — preferably one-hundred-plus
octane gasoline — is more than desirable if you
want planes to stay aloft is fairly obvious. But
the men who cooked up that slogan “Oil is am-
munition” may well have been thinking of it in a
less known, but more literal sense.
In the last war, the Allies were hard pressed for
adequate supplies of toluene, the essential basis
for the manufacture of trinitrotoluene, and for the
long list of benzene-type compounds that formed
the starting point of munitions manufacture. Picric
acid, the high explosive with the curious history
of having been used for more than a century as a
yellow dye before anybody even knew it would
explode, depends on benzene-ring raw materials.
In 1917-18, the only commercial source of the
quantities needed was the destructive distillation
of coal — coal-tar products, they were, and badly
needed ones. There simply wasn’t enough, stretch
the production as we would.
This time the whole story is different. The
petroleum chemists have had a quarter of a cen-
tury to study their profession, to develop methods,
and to work out production techniques. Germans
have long been famed as chemists; they have a
tremendous reputation. Unfortunately for Herr
Schickelgruber, reputations do not impress chemi-
cal molecules. In human affairs, a big reputation
can hang on after the justification is gone, or after
it has been reduced in scope to a very narrow
specialization. The German chemists are still
pretty good at making fancy dyestuffs. But no-
body, anywhere, can begin to compete with Ameri-
can petroleum chemists. American general chem-
istry has not quite the same degree of lead —
America had more petroleum business to support
chemists than all the rest of the world combined —
but in nearly all fields we have a definite lead.
But those petroleum chemists have left all others
sweating far behind. They're the men that worked
out the techniques of splitting the big, heavy oil
molecules down into little chips, swirling the chips
around a bit, and then sticking them back together
in new and far more useful ways. They invented
the techniques that make one-hundred-octane gaso-
line a commercial product. They’ve taken the
broken chips and reassembled them into every-
thing from synthetic rubber to synthetic plastics
to pure foodstuffs. (Commercial citric acid, the
stock-in-trade of church picnics and circus lem-
onade, it being the flavor-acid of lemons, is made
by a trick oxidation of a petroleum product. They
can make a high-grade vinegar by another oxida-
tion of another petroleum fraction. They can,
and have, produced a nourishing salad oil — not the
non-fattening, mineral-oil kind, but a decidedly
fattening type. They can, and have, produced
trick fats not found in nature that diabetic pa-
tients can eat more safely.)
But they have also produced, and are producing,
toluene, benzene, the whole benzene family and its
oxidation products by special cracking-and-
reassembling processes worked on petroleum
molecules. There’s no visible limit to the supply
of toluene for TNT this time.
Last time, too, they had a lot of trouble with
the supply of solvents necessary for TNT produc-
tion. TNT is physically rather similar to a syn-
thetic plastic; it’s molded and handled in sol-
vents. Our chemists in 1917-18 developed a fer-
mentation process that produced acetone and butyl
alcohol from corn. (The huge supplies of those
solvents left after the war led directly to the
production of today’s lacquers and indirectly to a
greater use and production of plastics.) That
trick helped a lot, though it cut into corn-hog
production.
But the petroleum chemist just needs to change
the valves on the big cracking plants, readjust his
catalysts and his temperatures, and presto! in-
stead of automobile gasoline, out come acetone,
or heavy alcohols. All the research has been done
during those twenty-five years; it just needs a
change-over of production.
Plasticizers that make the synthetic plastics
mold smoothly come from petroleum now, reliev-
ing the pressure on the supply of coal tar. Coal
tar is produced by cokeing coal; the coal is pro-
duced by mining, and the miners that do that job
need experience and training. You can't just say
“Ten times as much coal tar this month, please,”
and get it. But oil production can be increased by
simply letting the wells flow a bit faster.
You can’t cut the coal consumption of vital in-
dustries very much; iron and copper and power for
aluminum and magnesium and to turn the lathes
must be maintained and increased, not cut down.
But the automobiles that, in their millions, drank
gasoline in rivers can be eased up appreciably.
Those millions, by the way, mount up. If twenty
million automobiles save one gallon per month
apiece, that’s two hundred forty million gallons
a year. And that, properly converted to toluene
in the tri-nitro form, would be an excellent sort
of medicine to cure the totalitarian tinge of parts
of this planet.
The Editor.
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ASYLUM
By A. E. van Vogt
• Wherein is presented a lovely notion— that
we live on a reservation, watched over
by morons, since meeting normal members
of the Watcher's race would he fatal—
Illustrated by Schneeman
I.
Indecision was dark in the man’s thoughts as he
walked across the spaceship control room to the
cot where the woman lay so taut and so still. He
bent over her; he said in his deep voice:
“We’re slowing down, Merla.”
No answer, no movement, not a quiver in her
delicate, abnormally blanched cheeks. Her fine
nostrils dilated ever so slightly with each measured
breath. That was all.
The Dreegh lifted her arm, then let it go. It
dropped to her lap like a piece of lifeless wood,
and her body remained rigid and unnatural. Care-
ASYLUM
fully, he put his fingers to one eye, raised the lid,
peered into it. It stared back at him, a clouded,
sightless blue.
He straightened, and stood very still there in the
utter silence of the hurtling ship. For a moment,
then, in the intensity of his posture and in the dark
ruthlessness of his lean, hard features, he seemed
the veritable embodiment of grim, icy calculation.
He thought grayly: “If I revived her now,
she’d have more time to attack me, and more
strength. If I waited, she’d be weaker — ”
Slowly, he relaxed. Some of the weariness of
the years he and this woman had spent together in
the dark vastness of space came to shatter his ab-
normal logic. Bleak sympathy touched him — and
the decision was made.
He prepared an injection, and fed it into her arm.
His gray eyes held a steely brightness as he put his
lips near the woman's ear; in a ringing, resonant
voice he said :
“We’re near a star system. There’ll be blood,
Merlal And life!”
The woman stirred; momentarily, she seemed
like a golden-haired doll come alive. No color
touched her perfectly formed cheeks, but alertness
crept into her eyes. She stared up at him with a
hardening hostility, half questioning.
“I've been chemical,” she said — and abruptly the
doll-like effect was gone. Her gaze tightened on
him, and some of the prettiness vanished from her
face. Her lips twisted into words:
“It’s damned funny, Jeel, that you're still O. K.
If I thought — ”
He was cold, watchful. “Forget it," he said
curtly. “You’re an energy waster, and you know
it. Anyway, we’re going to land.”
The flamelike tenseness of her faded. She sat
up painfully, but there was a thoughtful look on
her face as she said:
“I’m interested in the risks. This is not a Galac-
tic planet, is it?”
“There are no Galactics out here. But there is
an Observer. I've been catching the secret ultra
signals for the last two hours” — a sardonic note en-
tered his voice — “warning all ships to stay clear
because the system isn’t ready for any kind of con-
tact with Galactic planets.”
Some of the diabolic glee that was in his
thoughts must have communicated through his
tone. The woman stared at him, and slowly her
eyes widened. She half whispered :
“You mean — ”
He shrugged. “The signals ought to be register-
ing full blast now. We’ll see what degree system
this is. But you can start hoping hard right now."
At the control board, he cautiously manipulated
the room into darkness and set the automatics — a
picture took form on a screen on the opposite wall.
At first there was only a point of light in the
middle of a starry sky, then a planet floating
brightly in the dark space, continents and oceans
plainly visible. A voice came out of the screen:
“This star system contains one inhabited planet,
the third from the Sun, called Earth by its inhabi-
tants. It was colonized by Galactics about seven
thousand years ago in the usual manner. It is now
in the third degree of development, having attained
a limited form of space travel little more than a
hundred years ago. It — ”
With a swift movement, the man cut off the pic-
ture and turned on the light, then looked across at
the woman in a blank, triumphant silence.
“Third degree!” he said softly, and there was
an almost incredulous note in his voice. “Only
third degree. Merla, do you realize what this
means? This is the opportunity of the ages. I’m
going to call the Dreegh tribe. If we can’t get
away with several tankers of blood and a whole
battery of ‘life,’ we don’t deserve to be immortal.
We—’’
He turned toward the communicator; and for
that exultant moment caution was a dim thing in
the back of his mind. From the corner of his eye,
he saw the woman flow from the edge of the cot.
Too late he twisted aside. The frantic jerk saved
him only partially; it was their cheeks, not their
lips that met.
Blue flame flashed from him to her. The burn-
ing energy seared his cheek to instant, bleeding
rawness. He half fell to the floor from the shock;
and then, furious with the intense agony, he fought
free.
“I’ll break your bones!” he raged.
Her laughter, unlovely with her own suppressed
fury, floated up at him from the floor, where he
had flung her. She snarled :
“So you did have a secret supply of ’life’ for
yourself. You damned double-crosser !”
His black mortification dimmed before the stark
realization that anger was useless. Tense with the
weakness that was already a weight on his muscles,
he whirled toward the control board, and began
feverishly to make the adjustments that would pull
the ship back into normal space and time.
The body urge grew in him swiftly, a dark, re-
morseless need. Twice, black nausea sent him reel-
ing to the cot; but each time he fought back to
the control board. He sat there finally at the con-
trols, head drooping, conscious of the numbing
tautness that crept deeper, deeper —
Almost, he drove the ship too fast. It turned a
blazing white when at last it struck the atmosphere
of the third planet. But those hard metals held
their shape ; and the terrible speeds yielded to the
fury of the reversers and to the pressure of the air
that thickened with every receding mile.
It was the woman who helped his faltering form
into the tiny lifeboat. He lay there, gathering
10
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
strength, staring with tense eagerness down at the
blazing sea of lights that was the first city he had
seen on the night side of this strange world.
Dully, he watched as the woman carefuly eased
the small ship into the darkness behind a shed in a
little back alley; and, because succor seemed sud-
denly near, sheer hope enabled him to walk beside
her to the dimly lighted residential street nearby.
He would have walked on blankly into the street,
but the woman’s fingers held him back into the
shadows of the alleyway.
“Are you mad?" she whispered. “Lie down.
We’ll stay right here till someone comes.”
The cement was hard beneath his body, but after
a moment of the painful rest it brought, he felt a
faint surge of energy; and he was able to voice his
bitter thought:
"If you hadn’t stolen most of my carefully saved
‘life,’ we wouldn’t be in this desperate position.
You know well that it’s more important that I re-
main at full power."
In the dark beside him, the woman lay quiet for
a while; then her defiant whisper came:
“We both need a change of blood and a new
charge of ‘life.’ Perhaps I did take a little too
much out of you, but that was because I had to
steal it. You wouldn’t have given it to me of your
own free will, and you know it."
For a time, the futility of argument held him
silent, but, as the minutes dragged, that dreadful
physical urgency once more tainted his thought;
he said heavily:
“You realize of course that we’ve revealed our
presence. We should have waited for the others
to come. There’s no doubt at all that our ship was
spotted by the Galactic Observer in this system be-
fore we reached the outer planets. They’ll have
tracers on us wherever we go, and, no matter where
we bury our machine, they’ll know its exact loca-
tion. It is impossible to hide the interstellar drive
energies; and, since they wouldn’t make the mis-
take of bringing such energies to a third degree
planet, we can’t hope to locate them in that
fashion.
“But we must expect an attack of some kind. I
only hope one of the great Galactics doesn’t take
part in it.”
“One of them!” Her whisper was a gasp, then
she snapped irritably, “Don’t try to scare me.
You’ve told me time and again that — ”
“All right, all right!” He spoke grudgingly,
wearity. “A million years have proven that they
consider us beneath their personal attention.
,-And” — in spite of his appalling weakness, scorn
came — “let any of the kind of agents they have in
these lower category planets try to stop us.”
“Hush!” Her whisper was tense. “Footsteps!
Quick, get to your feet!”
He was aware of the shadowed form of her ris-
ing; then her hands were tugging at him. Dizzily,
he stood up.
“I don’t think,” he began wanly, "that I can — ”
“Jeel!” Her whisper beat at him; her hands
shook him. “It’s a man and a woman. They’re
'life,' Jeel, ‘life’!”
Life!
He straightened with a terrible effort. A spark
of the unquenchable will to live that had brought
him across the black miles and the blacker years,
burst into flames inside him. Lightly, swiftly, he
fell into step beside Merla, and strode beside her
into the open. He saw the shapes of the man and
the woman.
In the half-night under the trees of that street,
the couple came towards them, drawing aside to
let them pass ; first the woman came, then the man
— and it was as simple as if all his strength had
been there in his muscles.
He saw Merla launch herself at the man; and
then he was grabbing the woman, his head bending
instantly for that abnormal kiss —
Afterwards — after they had taken the blood, too
— grimness came to the man, a hard fabric of
thought and counterthought, that slowly formed
into purpose; he said:
“We’ll leave the bodies here.”
Her startled whisper rose in objection, but he
cut her short harshly : “Let me handle this. These
dead bodies will draw to this city news gatherers,
news reporters or whatever their breed are called
on this planet; and we need such a person now.
Somewhere in the reservoir of facts possessed by
a person of this type must be clues, meaningless
to him, but by which we can discover the secret
base of the Galactic Observer in this system. We
must find that base, discover its strength, and de-
stroy it if necessary when the tribe comes.”
His voice took on a steely note: “And now,
we’ve got tp explore this city, find a much fre-
quented building, under which we can bury our
ship, learn the language, replenish our own vital
supplies — and capture that reporter.
“After I’m through with him” — his tone became
silk smooth — “he will undoubtedly provide you
with that physical diversion which you apparently
crave when you have been particularly chemical."
He laughed gently, as her fingers gripped his
arm in the darkness, a convulsive gesture; her
voice came: "Thank you, Jeel; you do understand,
don’t you?”
II.
Behind Leigh, a door opened. Instantly the
clatter of voices in the room faded to a murmur.
He turned alertly, tossing his cigarette onto the
marble floor, and stepping on it, all in one motion.
Overhead, the lights brightened to daylight in-
tensity; and in that blaze he saw what the other
eyes were already staring at: the two bodies, the
ASYLUM
11
man’s and the woman’s, as they were wheeled in.
The dead couple lay side by side on the flat,
gleaming top of the carrier. Their bodies were
rigid, their eyes closed; they looked as dead as
they were, and not at all, Leigh thought, as if they
were sleeping.
He caught himself making a mental note of that
fact — and felt abruptly shocked.
The first murders on the North American conti-
nent in twenty-seven years. And it was only an-
other job. By Heaven, he was tougher than he'd
ever believed.
He grew aware that the voices had stopped com-
pletely. The only sound was the hoarse breathing
of the man nearest him — and then the scrape of his
own shoes as he went forward.
His movement acted like a signal on that tense
group of men. There was a general pressing for-
ward. Leigh had a moment of hard anxiety; and
then his bigger, harder muscles brought him where
he wanted to be, opposite the two heads.
He leaned forward in dark absorption. His fin-
gers probed gingerly the neck of the woman, where
the incisions showed. He did not look up at the
attendant, as he said softly :
“This is where the blood was drained?”
“Yes.”
Before he could speak again, another reporter
interjected: “Any special comment from the po-
lice scientists? The murders are more than a day
old now. There ought to be something new.”
Leigh scarcely heard. The woman’s body, elec-
trically warmed for embalming, felt eerily lifelike
to his touch. It was only after a long moment that
he noticed her lips were badly, almost brutally,
bruised.
His gaze flicked to the man; and there were the
same neck cuts, the same torn lips. He looked up,
questions quivered on his tongue — and remained
unspoken as realization came that the calm-voiced
attendant was still talking. The man was saying :
“ — normally, when the electric embalmers are
applied, there is resistance from the static elec-
tricity of the body. Curiously, that resistance was
not present in either body.”
Somebody said: “Just what does that mean?”
“This static force is actually a form of life force,
which usually trickles out of a corpse over a period
of a month. We know of no way to hasten the
process, but the bruises on the lips show distinct
burns, which are suggestive."
There was a craning of necks, a crowding for-
ward; and Leigh allowed himself to be pushed
aside. He stopped attentively, as the attendant
said: “Presumably, a pervert could have kissed
with such violence."
“I thought," Leigh called distinctly, “there were
no more perverts since Professor Ungarn per-
suaded the government to institute his brand of
mechanical psychology in all schools, thus ending
murder, theft, war and all unsocial perversions."
The attendant in his black frock coat hesitated;
then : “A very bad one seems to have been missed.”
He finished: "That’s all, gentlemen. No clues,
no promise of an early capture, and only this final
fact: We've wirelessed Professor Ungarn and, by
great good fortune, we caught him on his way to
Earth from his meteorite retreat near Jupiter.
He’ll be landing shortly after dark, in a few hours
now.”
The lights dimmed. As Leigh stood frowning,
watching the bodies being wheeled out, a phrase
floated out of the gathering chorus of voices:
“ — The kiss of death — ’’
“I tell you,” another voice said, "the captain of
this space liner swears it happened — the space-
ship came past him at a million miles an hour, and
it was slowing down, get that, slowing down — two
days ago.”
“ — The vampire case! That’s what I’m going to
call it — ’’
That’s what Leigh called it, too, as he talked
briefly into his wrist communicator. He finished:
“I’m going to supper now. Jim.”
“O. K., Bill." The local editor’s voice came
metallically. “And say. I’m supposed to commend
you. Nine thousand papers took the Planetarian
Service on this story, as compared with about
forty-seven hundred who bought from Universal,
who got the second largest coverage.
“And I think you've got the right angle for to-
day also. Husband and wife, ordinary young cou-
ple, taking an evening’s walk. Some devil hauls
up alongside them, drains their blood into a tank,
their life energy onto a wire or something — people
will believe that, I guess. Anyway, you suggest
it could happen to anybody; so be careful, folks.
And you warn that, in these days of interplanetary
speeds, he could be anywhere tonight for his next
murder.
“As I said before, good stuff. That’ll keep the
story frying hard for tonight. Oh, by the way — ”
“Shoot!"
"A kid called half an hour ago to see you. Said
you expected him."
“A kid?” Leigh frowned to himself.
“Name of Patrick. High school age, about six-
teen. No, come to think of it, that was only my
first impression. Eighteen, maybe twenty, very
bright, confident, proud."
“I remember now,” said Leigh, “college student.
Interview for a college paper. Called me up this
afternoon. One of those damned persuasive
talkers. Before I knew it, I was signed up for
supper at Constantine’s.”
“That’s right. I was supposed to remind you.
O. K.?"
Leigh shrugged. “I promised,” he said.
Actually, as he went out into the blaze of late
12
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
afternoon, sunlit street, there was not a thought in
his head. Nor a premonition.
Around him, the swarm of humankind began to
thicken. Vast buildings discharged the first surge
of the five o’clock tidal wave — and twice Leigh
felt the tug at his arm before it struck him that
someone was not just bumping him.
He turned, and stared down at a pair of dark,
eager eyes set in a brown, wizened face. The little
man waved a sheaf of papers at him. Leigh caught
a glimpse of writing in longhand on the papers.
Then the fellow was babbling:
“Mr. Leigh, hundred dollars for these . . . big-
gest story — ”
“Oh,” said Leigh. His interest collapsed; then
his mind roused itself from its almost blank state;
and pure politeness made him say: "Take it up to
the Planetarian office. Jim Brian will pay you
what the story is worth.”
He walked on, the vague conviction in his mind
that the matter was settled. Then, abruptly, there
was the tugging at his arm again.
“Scoop!” the little man was muttering. “Pro-
fessor Ungarn’s log, all about a spaceship that came
from the stars. Devils in it who drink blood and
kiss people to death!"
“See here!” Leigh began, irritated; and then he
stopped physically and mentally. A strange ugly
chill swept through him. He stood there, swaying
a little from the shock of the thought that was
frozen in his brain :
The newspapers with those details of "blood"
and "kiss” were not on the street yet, wouldn't be
for another five minutes.
The man was saying: “Look, it’s got Professor
Ungarn’s name printed in gold on the top of each
sheet, and it’s all about how he first spotted the
ship eighteen light years out, and how it came all
that distance in a few hours . . . and he knows
where it is now and — ’’
Leigh heard, but that was all. His reporter's
brain, that special, highly developed department,
was whirling with a little swarm of thoughts that
suddenly straightened into a hard, bright pattern;
and in that tightly built design, there was no room
for any such brazen coincidence as this man com-
ing to him here in this crowded street.
He said: “Let me see those!” And reached as
he spoke.
The papers came free from the other’s fingers
into his hands, but Leigh did not even glance at
them. His brain was crystal-clear, his eyes cold;
he snapped :
"I don’t know what game you’re trying to pull.
I want to know three things, and make your an-
swers damned fast! One: How did you pick me
out, name and job and all, here in this packed street
of a city I haven’t been in for a year?”
He was vaguely aware of the little man trying
to speak, stammering incomprehensible words. But
he paid no attention. Remorselessly, he pounded
on:
“Two: Professor Ungarn is arriving from Jupi-
ter in three hours. How do you explain your pos-
session of papers he must have written, less than
two days ago?"
“Look, boss,” the man chattered, “you’ve got me
all wrong — ”
"My third question,” Leigh said grimly, “is how
are you going to explain to the police your pre-
knowledge of the details of — murder?”
"Huh!” The little man’s eyes were glassy, and
for the first time pity came to Leigh. He said al-
most softly:
"All right, fellah, start talking.”
The words came swiftly, and at first they were
simply senseless sounds; only gradually did co-
herence come.
“ — And that’s the way it was, boss. I’m stand-
ing there, and this kid comes up to me and points
you out, and gives me five bucks and those papers
you’ve got, and tells me what I’m supposed to say
to you and — ’’
“Kid!” said Leigh; and the first shock was al-
ready in him.
“Yeah, kid about sixteen; no, more like eighteen
or twenty . . . and he gives me the papers and — ”
“This kid,” said Leigh, “would you say he was
of college age?”
“That’s it, boss; you’ve got it. That’s just what
he was. You know him, eh? O. K., that leaves me
in the clear, and I’ll be going — ”
“Wait!" Leigh called, but the little man seemed
suddenly to realize that he need only run, for he
jerked into a mad pace; and people stared, and that
was all. He vanished around a corner, and was
gone forever.
Leigh stood, frowning, reading the thin sheaf of
papers. And there was nothing beyond what the
little man had already conveyed by his incoherent
word of mouth, simply a vague series of entries on
sheets from a loose-leaf notebook.
Written down, the tale about the spaceship and
its occupants lacked depth, and seemed more un-
convincing each passing second. True, there was
the single word "Ungarn” inscribed in gold on the
top of each sheet but —
Leigh shook himself. The sense of silly hoax
grew so violently that he thought with abrupt
anger: If that damned fool college kid really
pulled a stunt like —
The thought ended; for the idea was as senseless
as everything that had happened.
And still there was no real tension in him. He
was only going to a restaurant.
He turned into the splendid foyer that was the
beginning of the vast and wonderful Constantine’s.
ASYLUM
In the great doorway, he paused for a moment to
survey the expansive glitter of tables, the hanging
garden tearooms ; and it was all there.
Brilliant Constantine’s, famous the world over —
but not much changed from his last visit.
Leigh gave his name, and began : “A Mr. Patrick
made reservations, I understand — ’’
The girl cut him short. “Oh, yes, Mr. Leigh.
Mr. Patrick reserved Private 3 for you. He just
now phoned to say he'd be along in a few minutes.
Our premier will escort you."
Leigh was turning away, a vague puzzled
thought in his mind at the way the girl had gushed,
when a flamelike thought struck him: “Just a min-
ute, did you say Private 3? Who’s paying for
this?”
The girl glowed at him: “It was paid by phone.
Forty-five hundred dollars!”
Leigh stood very still. In a single, flashing mo-
ment, this meeting that, even after what had hap-
pened on the street, had seemed scarcely more
than an irritation to be gotten over with, was be-
come a fantastic, abnormal thing.
Forty-five — hundred — dollars! Could it be some
damned fool rich kid sent by a college paper, but
who had pulled this whole affair because he was
determined to make a strong, personal impression?
Coldly, alertly, his brain rejected the solution.
Humanity produced egoists on an elephantiastic
scale, but not one who would order a feast like
that to impress a reporter.
His eyes narrowed on an idea: “Where’s your
registered phone?” he asked curtly.
A minute later, he was saying into the mouth-
piece: “Is that the Amalgamated Universities
Secretariat? ... I want to find out if there is a
Mr. Patrick registered at any of your local col-
leges, and, if there is, whether or not he has been
authorized by any college paper to interview Wil-
liam Leigh of the Planetarian News Service. This
is Leigh calling.”
It took six minutes, and then the answer came,
brisk, tremendous and final : “There are three Mr.
Patricks in our seventeen units. All are at present
having supper at their various official residences.
There are four Miss Patricks similarly accounted
for by our staff of secretaries. None of these seven
is in any way connected with a university paper.
Do you wish any assistance in dealing with the im-
postor?”
Leigh hesitated; and when he finally spoke, it
was with the queer, dark realization that he was
committing himself. “No,” he said, and hung up.
He came out of the phone box, shaken by his
own thoughts. There was only one reason why
he was in this city at this time. Murder! And he
knew scarcely a soul. Therefore —
It was absolutely incredible that any stranger
would want to see him for a reason not connected
13
with his own purpose. He shook the ugly thrill
out of his system; he said:
“To Private 3, please — "
Tensed but cool, he examined the apartment that
was Private 3. Actually that was all it was. a
splendidly furnished apartment with a palacelike
dining salon dominating the five rooms, and one
entire wall of the salon was lined with decorated
mirror facings, behind which glittered hundreds
of bottles of liquors.
The brands were strange to his inexpensive
tastes, the scent of several that he opened heady
and — quite uninviting. In the ladies’ dressing
room was a long showcase displaying a gleaming
array of jewelry — several hundred thousand dol-
lars’ worth, if it was genuine, he estimated swiftly.
Leigh whistled softly to himself. On the sur-
face. Constantine's appeared to supply good rental
value for the money they charged.
“I’m glad you’re physically big,” said a cool
voice behind him. “So many reporters are thin
and small.”
It was the voice that did it, subtly, differently
toned than it had been over the phone in the early
afternoon. Deliberately different.
The difference, he noted as he turned, was in the
body, too. the difference in the shape of a woman
from a boy, skillfully but not perfectly concealed
under the well-tailored man’s suit — actually, of
course, she was quite boyish in build, young, finely
molded.
And, actually, he would never have suspected if
she had not allowed her voice to be so purposefully
womanish. She echoed his thought coolly:
“Yes, I wanted you to know. But now, there’s
no use wasting words. You know as much as you
need to know. Here's a gun. The spaceship is
buried below this building.”
Leigh made no effort to take the weapon, nor
did he even glance at it. Instead, cool now, that
the first shock was over, he seated himself on the
silk-yielding chair of the vanity dresser in one
corner, leaned heavily back against the vanity it-
self. raised his eyebrows, and said:
“Consider me a slow-witted lunk who's got to
know what it’s all about. Why so much prelimi-
nary hocus-pocus?”
He thought deliberately: He had never in his
adult life allowed himself to be rushed into any-
thing. He was not going to start now.
HI.
The girl, he saw after a moment, was small of
build. Which was odd, he decided carefully. Be-
cause his first impression had been of reasonable
length of body. Or perhaps — he considered the
possibility unhurriedly — this second effect was a
more considered result of her male disguise.
14
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
He dismissed that particular problem as tempo-
rarily insoluble, and because actually — it struck
him abruptly — this girl’s size was unimportant.
She had long, black lashes and dark eyes that
glowed at him from a proud, almost haughty face.
And that was it; quite definitely that was the es-
sence of her blazing, powerful personality.
Pride was in the way she held her head. It was
in the poised easiness of every movement, the natu-
ral shift from grace to grace as she walked slowly
toward him. Not conscious pride here, but an
awareness of superiority that affected every move-
ment of her muscles, and came vibrantly into her
voice, as she said scathingly:
“I picked you because every newspaper I’ve read
today carried your account of the murders, and
because it seemed to me that somebody who already
was actively working on the case would be reason-
ably quick at grasping essentials. As for the dra-
matic preparation, I considered that would be more
convincing than drab explanation. I see I was mis-
taken in all these assumptions.”
She was quite close to him now. She leaned over,
laid her revolver on the vanity beside his arm, and
finished almost indifferently:
“Here’s an effective weapon. It doesn’t shoot
bullets, but it has a trigger and you aim it like any
gun. In the event you develop the beginning of
courage, come down the tunnel after me as quickly
as possible, but don’t blunder in on me and the peo-
ASYLUM
IS
pie I shall be talking to. Stay hidden! Act only
if I’m threatened."
Tunnel, Leigh thought stolidly, as she walked
with a free, swift stride out of the room — tunnel
here in this apartment called Private 3. Either he
was crazy, or she was.
Quite suddenly, realization came that he ought
to be offended at the way she had spoken. And
that insultingly simple come-on trick of hers, leav-
ing the room, leaving him to develop curiosity —
he smiled ruefully; if he hadn’t been a reporter,
he’d show her that such a second-rate psychology
didn’t work on him.
Still annoyed, he climbed to his feet, took the
gun, and then paused briefly as the odd, muffled
sound came of a door opening reluctantly —
He found her in the bedroom to the left of the
dining salon; and because his mind was still in that
state of pure receptiveness, which, for him, re-
placed indecisiveness, he felt only the vaguest sur-
prise to see that she had the end of a lush green
rug rolled back, and that there was a hole in the
floor at her feet.
The gleaming square of floor that must have cov-
ered the opening, lay back neatly, pinned to posi-
tion by a single, glitteringly complicated hinge.
But Leigh scarcely noticed that.
His gaze reached beyond that — tunnel — to the
girl; and, in that moment, just before she became
aware of him, there was the barest suggestion of
uncertainty about her. And her right profile, half
turned away from him, showed pursed lips, a
strained whiteness, as if —
The impression he received was of indecisive-
ness. He had the subtle sense of observing a young
woman who, briefly, had lost her superb confidence.
Then she saw him ; and his whole emotion picture
twisted.
She didn’t seem to stiffen in any way. Paying
no attention to him at all, she stepped down to the
first stair of the little stairway that led down into
the hole, and began to descend without a quiver of
hesitation. And yet —
Yet his first conviction that she had faltered
brought him forward with narrowed eyes. And,
suddenly, that certainty of her brief fear made
this whole madness real. He plunged forward,
down the steep -stairway, and pulled up only when
he saw that he was actually in a smooth, dimly
lighted tunnel; and that the girl had paused, one
finger to her lips.
“SsssAft/” she said. “The door of the ship may be
open.”
Irritation struck Leigh, a hard trickle of anger.
Now that he had committed himself, he felt auto-
matically the leader of this fantastic expedition;
and that girl’s pretensions, the devastating haugh-
tiness of her merely produced his first real impa-
tience.
“Don’t ‘ssshh me’!” he whispered sharply. “Just
give me the facts, and I'll do the rest.”
He stopped. For the first time the meaning of
all the words she had spoken penetrated. His
anger collapsed like a plane in a crash landing.
“Ship!” he said incredulously. “Are you trying
to tell me there’s actually a spaceship buried here
under Constantine’s?"
The girl seemed not to hear; and Leigh saw that
they were at the end of a short passageway. Metal
gleamed dully just ahead. Then the girl was say-
ing:
“Here’s the door. Now, remember, you act as
guard. Stay hidden, ready to shoot. And if I yell
‘Shoot,’ you shoot!"
She bent forward. There was the tiniest scarlet
flash. The door opened, revealing a second door
just beyond. Again that minute, intense blaze of
red ; and that door too swung open.
It was swiftly done, too swiftly. Before Leigh
could more than grasp that the crisis was come, the
girl stepped coolly into the brilliantly lighted
room beyond the second door.
There was shadow where Leigh stood half-para-
lyzed by the girl's action. There was deeper
shadow against the metal wall toward which he
pressed himself in one instinctive move. He froze
there, cursing silently at a stupid young woman
who actually walked into a den of enemies of un-
known numbers without a genuine plan of self-pro-
tection.
Or did she know how many there were? And
who?
The questions made twisting paths in his mind
down, down to a thrall of blankness — that ended
only when an entirely different thought replaced
it;
At least he was out here with a gun, unnoticed
— or was he?
He waited tensely. But the door remained open ;
and there was no apparent movement towards it.
Slowly, Leigh let himself relax, and allowed his
straining mind to absorb its first considered im-
pressions.
The portion of underground room that he could
see showed one end of what seemed to be a control
board, a metal wall that blinked with tiny lights,
the edge of a rather sumptuous cot — and the whole
was actually so suggestive of a spaceship that
Leigh’s logic-resistance collapsed.
Incredibly, here under the ground, actually
under Constantine’s was a small spaceship and —
That thought ended, too, as the silence beyond
the open door, the curiously long silence, was
broken by a man's cool voice:
“I wouldn’t even try to raise that gun if I were
you. The fact that you have said nothing since
entering shows how enormously different we are
to what you expected.”
16
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
He laughed gently, an unhurried, deep-throated
derisive laughter that came clearly to Leigh. The
man said :
“Merla, what would you say is the psychology
behind this young lady’s action? You have of
course noticed that she is a young lady, and not
a boy.”
A richly toned woman’s voice replied : “She was
born here. Jeel. She has none of the normal char-
acteristics of a Klugg, but she is a Galactic, though
definitely not the Galactic Observer. Probably,
she’s not alone. Shall I investigate?"
“No!” The man sounded indifferent to the tens-
ing Leigh. “We don’t have to worry about a
Klugg’s assistant.”
Leigh relaxed slowly, but there was a vast un-
easiness in his solar nerves, a sense of emptiness,
the first realization of how great a part the calm
assurance of the young woman had played in the
fabricating of his own basic confidence.
Shattered now! Before the enormous certain-
ties of these two, and in the face of their instant
penetration of her male disguise, the effects of
the girl’s rather wonderful personality seemed a
remote pattern, secondary, definitely overwhelmed.
He forced the fear from him, as the girl spoke;
forced his courage to grow with each word she
uttered, feeding on the haughty and immense con-
fidence that was there. It didn't matter whether
she was simulating or not, because they were in
this now, he as deep as she; and only the utmost
boldness could hope to draw a fraction of victory
from the defeat that loomed so starkly.
With genuine admiration, he noted the glowing
intensity of her speech, as she said:
“My silence had its origin in the fact that you
are the first Dreeghs I have ever seen. Naturally,
I studied you with some curiosity, but I can assure
you I am not impressed.
“However, in view of your extraordinary opin-
ions on the matter, I shall come to the point at
once: I have been instructed by the Galactic Ob-
server of this system to inform you to be gone by
morning. Our sole reason for giving you that
much leeway is that we don’t wish to bring the
truth of all this into the open.
“But don’t count on that. Earth is on the verge
of being given fourth degree rating; and, as you
probably know, in emergencies fourths are given
Galactic knowledge. That emergency we will con-
sider to have arrived tomorrow at dawn.”
“Well, well” — the man was laughing gently, sa-
tirically — “a pretty speech, powerfully spoken, but
meaningless for us who can analyze its pretensions,
however sincere, back to the Klugg origin.”
“What do you intend with her, Jeel?”
The man was cold, deadly, utterly sure. “There’s
no reason why she should escape. She has blood
and more than normal life. It will convey to the
Observer with clarity our contempt for his ulti-
matum.”
He finished with a slow, surprisingly rich laugh-
ter: “We shall now enact a simple drama. The
young lady will attempt to jerk up her gun and
shoot me with it. Before she can even begin to
succeed, I shall have my own weapon out and fir-
ing. The whole thing, as she will discover, is a
matter of nervous co-ordination. And Kluggs are
chronically almost as slow-moving as human be-
ings.”
His voice stopped. His laughter trickled away.
Silence.
In all his alert years, Leigh had never felt more
indecisive. His emotions said — now; surely, she’d
call now. And even if she didn’t, he must act on
his own. Rush in! Shoot!
But his mind was cold with an awful dread.
There was something about the man’s voice, a surg-
ing power, a blazing, incredible certainty. Abnor-
mal, savage strength was here; and if this was
really a spaceship from the stars —
His brain wouldn't follow that flashing, terrible
thought. He crouched, fingering the gun she had
given him, dimly conscious for the first time that
it felt queer, unlike any revolver he’d ever had.
He crouched stiffly, waiting — and the silence
from the spaceship control room, from the tensed
figures that must be there just beyond his line of
vision, continued. The same curious silence that
had followed the girl’s entrance short minutes be-
fore. Only this time it was the girl who broke
it, her voice faintly breathless but withal cool, vi-
brant, unafraid:
“I’m here to warn, not to force issues. And un-
less you’re charged with the life energy of fifteen
men, I wouldn't advise you to try anything either.
After all, I came here knowing what you were.”
“What do you think, Merla? Can we be sure
she's a Klugg? Could she possibly be of the higher
Lennel type?”
It was the man, his tone conceding her point, but
the derision was still there, the implacable purpose,
the high, tremendous confidence.
And yet, in spite of that unrelenting sense of im-
minent violence, Leigh felt himself torn from the
thought of her danger — and his. His reporter's
brain twisted irresistibly to the fantastic meaning
of what was taking place:
— Life energy of fifteen men —
It was all there; in a monstrous way it all fitted.
The two dead bodies he had seen drained of blood
and life energy, the repeated reference to a Galac-
tic Observer, with whom the girl was connected.
Leigh thought almost blankly: Galactic meant —
well — Galactic; and that was so terrific that — He
grew aware that the woman was speaking:
“Klugg!” she said positively. “Pay no attention
to her protestations, Jeel. You know, I’m sensitive
ASYLUM
17
when it comes to women. She’s lying. She’s just
a little fool who walked in here expecting us to be
frightened of her. Destroy her at your pleasure.”
“I’m not given to waiting,” said the man. "So — ”
Quite automatically, Leigh leaped for the open
doorway. He had a flashing glimpse of a man and
woman, dressed in evening clothes, the man stand-
ing, the woman seated. There was awareness of
a gleaming, metallic background, the control board,
part of which he had already seen, now revealed as
a massive thing of glowing instruments; and then
all that blotted out as he snapped :
“That will do. Put up your hands.”
For a long, dazzling moment he had the impres-
sion that his entry was a complete surprise; and
that he dominated the situation. None of the three
people in the room was turned toward him. The
man, Jeel, and the girl were standing, facing each
other ; the woman, Merla, sat in a deep chair, her
fine profile to him, her golden head flung back.
It was she who, still without looking at him,
sneered visibly — and spoke the words that ended
his brief conviction of triumph. She said to the
disguised girl:
“You certainly travel in low company, a stupid
human being. Tell him to go away before he’s
damaged.”
The girl said: “Leigh, I’m sorry I brought you
into this. Every move you made in entering was
heard, observed and dismissed before you could
even adjust your mind to the scene.”
“Is his name Leigh?” said the woman sharply.
“I thought I recognized him as he entered. He’s
very like his photograph over his newspaper col-
umn.” Her voice grew strangely tense: “Jeel, a
newspaper reporter!”
“We don’t need him now,” the man said. “We
know who the Galactic Observer is.”
“Eh?” said Leigh; his mind fastened hard on
those amazing words. “Who? How did you find
out? What — ”
“The information.” said the woman; and it
struck him suddenly that the strange quality in
her voice was eagerness, “will be of no use to you.
Regardless of what happens to the girl, you're
staying."
She glanced swiftly at the man, as if seeking his
sanction. “Remember, Jeel, you promised."
It was all quite senseless, so meaningless that
Leigh had no sense of personal danger. His mind
scarcely more than passed the words ; his eyes con-
centrated tautly on a reality that had, until that
moment, escaped his awareness. He said softly:
“Just now you used the phrase, 'Regardless of
what happens to the girl.’ When I came in, you
said, ‘Tell him to go away before he’s damaged.”’
Leigh smiled grimly: “I need hardly say this
is a far cry from the threat of immediate death that
hung over us a few seconds ago. And I have just
now noticed the reason.
“A little while ago, I heard our pal, Jeel, dare
my little girl friend here to raise her gun. I notice
now that she has it raised. My entrance did have
an effect.” He addressed himself to the girl, fin-
ished swiftly: “Shall we shoot — or withdraw?”
It was the man who answered : “I would advise
withdrawal. I could still win, but I am not the
heroic type who takes the risk of what might well
be a close call."
He added, in an aside to the woman: “Merla, we
can always catch this man, Leigh, now that we
know who he is.”
The girl said: “You first, Mr. Leigh." And
Leigh did not stop to argue.
Metal doors clanged behind him, as he charged
along the tunnel. After a moment, he was aware
of the girl running lightly beside him.
The strangely unreal, the unbelievably murder-
ous little drama was over, finished as fantastically
as it had begun.
IV.
Outside Constantine’s a gray light gathered
around them. A twilight side street it was, and
people hurried past them with the strange, anxious
look of the late for supper. Night was falling.
Leigh stared at his companion; in the dimness
of the deep dusk, she seemed all boy, slightly,
lithely built, striding along boldly. He laughed a
little, huskily, then more grimly:
“Just what was all that? Did we escape by the
skin of our teeth? Or did we win? What made
you think you could act like God, and give those
tough eggs twelve hours to get out of the Solar
System?”
The girl was silent after he had spoken. She
walked just ahead of him, head bent into the
gloom. Abruptly, she turned; she said:
“I hope you will have no nonsensical idea of tell-
ing what you’ve seen or heard.”
Leigh said: "This is the biggest story since — ’’
“Look” — the girl’s voice was pitying — “you’re
not going to print a word because in about ten sec-
onds you’ll see that no one in the world would be-
lieve the first paragraph."
In the darkness, Leigh smiled tightly: “The me-
chanical psychologist will verify every syllable.”
“I came prepared for that, too!” said the vibrant
voice. Her hand swung up, toward his face. Too
late, he jerked back.
Light flared in his eyes, a dazzling, blinding
force that exploded into his sensitive optic nerves
with all the agonizing power of intolerable bright-
ness. Leigh cursed aloud, wildly, and snatched
forward toward his tormenter. His right hand
grazed a shoulder. He lashed out violently with
his left, and tantalizingly caught only the edge of
a sleeve that instantly jerked away.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
"You little devil!” he raged futilely. “You’ve
blinded me.”
“You’ll be all right,” came the cool answer, "but
you’ll find that the mechanical psychologist will
report anything you say as the purest imagination.
In view of your threat to publish, I had to do that.
Now, give me my gun."
The first glimmer of sight was returning. Leigh
could see her body a dim, wavering shape in the
night. In spite of the continuing pain, Leigh
smiled grimly. He said softly:
"I’ve just now remembered you said this gun
didn’t shoot bullets. Even the feel of it suggests
that it’ll make an interesting proof of anything I
say. So — ”
His smile faded abruptly. For the girl stepped
forward. The metal that jabbed into his ribs was
so hardly thrust, it made him grunt.
“Give me that gun!"
“Like fun I will,” Leigh snapped. “You un-
grateful little ruffian, how dare you treat me so
shoddily after I saved your life? I ought to knock
you one right on the jaw for — ”
He stopped — stopped because with staggering
suddenness the hard, hard realization struck that
she meant it. This was no girl raised in a refined
school, who wouldn’t dare to shoot, but a cold-
blooded young creature, who had already proved
the metalliclike fabric of which her courage was
made.
He had never had any notions about the superi-
ority of man over woman ; and he felt none now.
Without a single word, almost hastily, he handed
the weapon over. The girl took it, and said coldly:
“You seem to be laboring under the illusion that
your entry into the spaceship enabled me to raise
my weapon. You're quite mistaken. What you did
do was to provide me with the opportunity to let
them think that that was the situation, and that
they dominated it. But I assure you, that is the
extent of your assistance, almost valueless."
Leigh laughed out loud, a pitying, ridiculing
laugh.
"In my admittedly short life,” he said laconi-
cally, “I’ve learned to recognize a quality of per-
sonality and magnetism in human beings. You've
got it, a lot of it, but not a fraction of what either
of those two had. particularly the man. He was
terrible. He was absolutely the most abnormally
magnetic human being I’ve ever run across. Lady,
I can only guess what all this is about, but I’d ad-
vise you” — Leigh paused, then finished slashingly
— “you and all the other Kluggs to stay away from
that couple.
“Personally, I’m going to get the police in on
this, and there’s going to be a raid on Private 3.
I didn’t like that odd threat that they could cap-
ture me any time. Why me — ”
He broke off hastily: “Hey, where are you go-
ing? I want to know your name. I want to know
what made you think you could order those two
around. Who did you think you were ?"
He said no more, his whole effort concentrated
on running. He could see her for a moment, a
hazy, boyish figure against a dim corner light.
Then she was around the corner.
His only point of contact with all this; and if
she got away —
Sweating, he rounded the corner ; and at first the
street seemed dark and empty of life. Then he
saw the car.
A normal-looking, high-hooded coup£, long, low-
built, that began to move forward noiselessly and
— quite normally.
It became abnormal. It lifted. Amazingly, it
lifted from the ground. He had a swift glimpse
of white rubber wheels folding out of sight.
Streamlined, almost cigar-shaped now, the space-
ship that had been a car darted at a steep angle
into the sky.
Instantly it was gone.
Above Leigh, the gathering night towered, a
strange, bright blue. In spite of the brilliant lights
of the city glaring into the sky, one or two stars
showed. He stared up at them, empty inside,
thinking : “It was like a dream. Those — Dreeghs
— coming out of space — bloodsuckers, vampires.”
Suddenly hungry, he bought a chocolate from a
sidewalk stand, and stood munching it.
He began to feel better. He walked over to a
nearby wall socket, and plugged in his wrist radio.
“Jim,” he said, “I’ve got some stuff, not for
publication, but maybe we can get some police ac-
tion on it. Then I want you to have a mechanical
psychologist sent to my hotel room. There must
be some memory that can be salvaged from my
brain — ”
He went on briskly. His sense of inadequacy
waned notably. Reporter Leigh was himself again.
V.
The little glistening balls of the mechanical psy-
chologist were whirring faster, faster. They be-
came a single, glowing circle in the darkness. And
not till then did the first, delicious whiff of psy-
cho-gas touch his nostrils. He felt himself drift-
ing, slipping—
A voice began to speak in the dim distance, so
far away that not a word came through. There
was only the sound, the faint, curious sound, and
the feeling, stronger every instant, that he would
soon be able to hear the fascinating things it
seemed to be saying.
The longing to hear, to become a part of the
swelling, murmuring sound drew his whole being
in little rhythmical, wavelike surges. And still
the promise of meaning was unfulfilled.
Other, private thoughts ended utterly. Only
ASYLUM
19
the mindless chant remained, and the pleasing gas
holding him so close to sleep, its flow nevertheless
so delicately adjusted that his mind hovered min-
ute after minute on the ultimate abyss of con-
sciousness.
He lay, finally, still partially awake, but even the
voice was merging now into blackness. It clung
for a while, a gentle, friendly, melodious sound in
the remote background of his brain, becoming more
remote with each passing instant. He slept, a deep,
hypnotic sleep, as the machine purred on —
When Leigh opened his eyes, the bedroom was
dark except for the floor lamp beside a corner
chair. It illuminated the darkly dressed woman
who sat there, all except her face, which was in
shadow above the circle of light.
He must have moved, for the shadowed head sud-
denly looked up from some sheets of typewriter-
size paper. The voice of Merla, the Dreegh, said:
“The girl did a very good job of erasing your
subconscious memories. There’s only one possible
clue to her identity and — ”
Her words went on, but his brain jangled them
to senselessness in that first horrible shock of
recognition. It was too much, too much fear in
too short a time. For a brief, terrible moment, he
was like a child, and strange, cunning, intense
thoughts of escape came:
If he could slide to the side of the bed, away
from where she was sitting, and run for the bath-
room door —
“Surely, Mr. Leigh,” the woman’s voice reached
toward him, “you know better than to try anything
foolish. And, surely, if I had intended to kill you,
I would have done it much more easily while you
were asleep."
Leigh lay very still, gathering his mind back
into his head, licking dry lips. Her words were
utterly unreassuring. “What — do — you — want?"
he managed finally.
"Information!" Laconically. “What was that
girl?"
“I don’t know.” He 6tared into the half gloom,
where her face was. His eyes were more accus-
tomed to the light now, and he could catch the
faint, golden glint of her hair. “I thought — you
knew."
He went on more swiftly: “I thought you knew
the Galactic Observer; and that implied the girl
could be Identified any time.”
He had the impression she was smiling. She
said :
“Our statement to that effect was designed to
throw both you and the girl off guard, and con-
stituted the partial victory we snatched from what
had become an impossible situation.”
The body sickness was still upon Leigh, but the
desperate fear that had produced it was fading be-
fore the implications of her confession of weak-
ness, the realization that these Dreeghs were not
so superhuman as he had thought. Relief was fol-
lowed by caution. Careful, he warned himself, it
wouldn’t be wise to underestimate. But he couldn’t
help saying:
“So you weren’t so smart. And I’d like to point
out that even your so-called snatching of victory
from defeat was not so well done. Your husband’s
statement that you could pick me up any time
could easily have spoiled the picking.”
The woman's voice was cool, faintly contemptu-
ous. "If you knew anything of psychology, you
would realize that the vague phrasing of the threat
actually lulled you. Certainly, you failed to take
even minimum precautions. And the girl has
definitely not made any effort to protect you.”
The suggestion of deliberately subtle tactics
brought to Leigh a twinge of returning alarm.
Deep, deep inside him was the thought: What
ending did the Dreegh woman plan for this strange
meeting?
"You realize, of course,” the Dreegh said softly,
“that you will either be of value to us alive — or
20
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
dead. There are no easy alternatives. I would
advise alertness and utmost sincerity in your co-
operation. You are in his affair without limit.”
So that was the plan. A thin bead of perspira-
tion trickled down Leigh’s cheek. And his fingers
trembled as he reached for a cigarette on the table
beside the bed.
He was shakily lighting the cigarette when his
gaze fastened on the window. That brought a
faint shock, for it was raining, a furious rain that
hammered soundlessly against the noise-proof
glass.
He pictured the bleak, empty streets, their bril-
liance dulled by the black, rain-filled night; and,
strangely, the mind picture unnerved him.
Deserted streets — deserted Leigh. For he was
deserted here; all the friends he had, scattered over
the great reaches of the earth, couldn't add one
ounce of strength, or bring one real ray of hope
to him in this darkened room, against this woman
who sat so calmly under the light, studying him
from shadowed eyes.
With a sharp effort, Leigh steadied himself. He
said: “I gather that's my psychograph report you
have in your hand. What does it say?"
“Very disappointing." Her voice seemed far
away. “There’s a warning in it about your diet.
It seems your meals are irregular.”
She was playing with him. The heavy attempt
at humor made her seem more inhuman, not loss;
for, somehow, the words clashed unbearably with
the reality of her; the dark immensity of space
across which she had come, the unnatural lusts
that had brought her and the man to this literally
unprotected Earth.
Leigh shivered. Then he thought fiercely:
“Damn it. I’m scaring myself. So long as she stays
in her chair, she can't pull the vampire on me.”
The harder thought came that it was no use
being frightened. He’d better simply be himself,
and await events. Aloud, he said :
“If there’s nothing in the psychograph, then
Im afraid I can't help you. You might as well
leave. Your presence isn't making me any hap-
pier."
In a dim way, he hoped she'd laugh. But she
didn’t. She sat there, her eyes glinting dully out
of the gloom. At last, she said :
“We’ll go through this report together. I think
we can safely omit the references to your health
as being irrelevant. But there are a number of
factors that I want developed. Who is Professor
Ungarn?”
“A scientist." Leigh spoke frankly. "He in-
vented this system of mechanical hypnosis, and
he was called in when the dead bodies were found
because the killings seemed to have been done by
perverts."
“Have you any knowledge of his physical ap-
pearance?”
“I’ve never seen him,” Leigh said more slowly.
“He never gives interviews, and his photograph is
not available now. I've heard stories, but — "
He hesitated. It wasn't, he thought frowning,
as if he was giving what was not general knowl-
edge. What was the woman getting at, anyway?
Ungarn —
“These stories," she said, “do they give the im-
pression that he's a man of inordinate magnetic
force, but with lines of mental suffering etched in
his face, and a sort of resignation?”
“Resignation to what?” Leigh exclaimed
sharply. “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re
talking about. I've only seen photographs, and
they show a fine, rather sensitive, tired face."
She said: “There would be more information
in any library?”
“Or in the Planetarian Service morgue," Leigh
said, and could have bitten off his tongue for that
bit of gratuitous information.
“Morgue?” said the woman.
Leigh explained, but his voice was trembb'.ng
with self-rage. For seconds now the feeling had
been growing on him: Was it possible this devil-
ish woman was on the right track? And getting
damaging answers out of him because he dared
not stop and organize for lying.
Even as savage anxiety came, he had an incon-
gruous sense of the unfairness of the abnormally
swift way she had solved the Observer’s identity
because, damn it, damn it, it could be Professor
Ungarn.
Ungarn, the mystery scientist, great inventor in
a dozen highly complicated, widely separated
fields; and there was that mysterious meteorite
home near one of Jupiter's moons and he had
a daughter, named Patricia. Good heavens,
Patrick— Patricia—
His shaky stream of thoughts ended, as the
woman said :
“Can you have your office send the information
to your recorder here?”
“Y-yes!" His reluctance was so obvious that
the woman bent into the light. For a moment, her
golden hair glittered; her pale-blue eyes glowed
at him in a strangely humorless, satanic amuse-
ment.
“Ah!” she said, “you think so, too?”
She laughed, an odd, musical laugh — odd in that
it was at once so curt and so pleasant. The laugh
ended abruptly, unnaturally, on a high note. And
then — although he had not seen her move — there
was a metal thing in her hand, pointing at him.
Her voice came at him, with a brittle, jarring
command :
“You will climb out of the bed, operate the
recorder, and naturally you will do nothing, say
nothing but what is necessary.”
ASYLUM
21
Leigh felt genuinely dizzy. The room swayed;
and he thought sickly: If he could only faint.
But he recognized dismally that that was beyond
the power of his tough body. It was sheer mental
dismay that made his nerves so shivery. And even
that faded like fog in strong sunlight, as he walked
to the recorder. For the first time in his life, he
hated the resilience of strength that made his voice
steady as a rock, as, after setting the machine, he
said :
“This is William Leigh. Give me all the dope
you’ve got on Professor Garret Ungarn.”
There was a pause, during which he thought
hopelessly: “It wasn’t as if he was giving infor-
mation not otherwise accessible. Only — ”
There was a click in the machine; then a brisk
voice: “You've got it. Sign the form.”
Leigh signed, and watched the signature dis-
solve into the machine. It was then, as he was
straightening, that the woman said:
"Shall I read it here, Jeel, or shall we take the
machine along?”
That was mind-wrecking. Like a man possessed,
Leigh whirled; and then, very carefully, he sat
down on the bed.
The Dreegh, Jeel, was leaning idly against the
jamb of the bathroom door, a dark, malignantly
handsome man. with a faint, unpleasant smile on
his lips. Behind him — incredibly, behind him,
through the open bathroom door was, not the
gleaming bath, but another door; and beyond that
door still another door, and beyond that —
The control room of the Dreegh spaceship!
There it was, exactly as he had seen it in the
solid ground under Constantine’s. He had the
same partial view of the sumptuous cot, the im-
posing section of instrument board, the tastefully
padded floor —
In his bathroom!
The insane thought came to Leigh: “Oh, yes,
I keep my spaceship in my bathroom and — ” It
was the Dreegh’s voice that drew his brain from
its dizzy contemplation; the Dreegh saying:
“I think we’d better leave. I’m having difficulty
holding the ship on the alternation of space-time
planes. Bring the man and the machine and — ’’
Leigh didn’t hear the last word. He jerked his
mind all the way out of the — bathroom. “You’re —
taking — me?”
“Why, of course.” It was the woman who spoke.
“You’ve been promised to me, and, besides, we’ll
need your help in finding Ungarn’s meteorite.”
Leigh sat very still. The unnatural thought
came : He was glad that he had in the past proven
to himself that he was not a coward.
For here was certainty of death.
He saw after a moment that the rain was still
beating against the glass, great, sparkling drops
that washed murkily down the broad panes. And
he saw that the night was dark.
Dark night, dark rain, dark destiny — they fitted
his dark, grim thoughts. With an effort he forced
his body, his mind, into greater stiffness. Auto-
matically, he shifted his position, so that the
weight of muscles would draw a tight band over
the hollowness that he felt in his stomach. When
at last he faced his alien captors again, Reporter
Leigh was cold with acceptance of his fate — and
prepared to fight for his life.
"I can’t think of a single reason,” he said, “why
I should go with you. And if you think I’m going
to help you destroy the Observer, you’re crazy.”
The woman said matter-of-factly : “There was
a passing reference in your psychograph to a Mrs.
Henry Leigh, who lives in a village called Relton,
on the Pacific coast. We could be there in half an
hour, your mother and her home destroyed within
a minute after that. Or, perhaps, we could add
her blood to our reserves.”
“She would be too old,” the man said in a chill
tone. “We do not want the blood of old people.”
It was the icy objection that brought horror to
Leigh. He had a brief, terrible picture of a silent,
immensely swift ship sweeping out of the Eastern
night, over the peaceful hamlet; and then un-
earthly energies would reach down in a blaze of
fury.
One second of slashing fire, and the ship would
sweep on over the long, dark waters to the west.
The deadly picture faded. The woman was say-
ing, gently:
“Jeel and I have evolved an interesting little
system of interviewing human beings of the lower
order. For some reason, he frightens people
merely by his presence. Similarly, people develop
an unnatural fear of me when they see me clearly
in a strong light. So we have always tried to
arrange our meetings with human beings with me
sitting in semidarkness and Jeel very much in the
background. It has proved very effective.”
She stood up, a tall, lithely built, shadowed
figure in a rather tight-fitting skirt and a dark
blouse. She finished: “But now, shall we go?
You bring the machine, Mr. Leigh.”
“I’ll take it,” said the Dreegh.
Leigh glanced sharply at the lean, sinewed face
of the terrible man, startled at the instant, accurate
suspicion of the desperate intention that had
formed in his mind.
The Dreegh loomed over the small machine,
where it stood on a corner desk. “How does it
work?” he asked almost mildly.
Trembling, Leigh stepped forward. There was
still a chance that he could manage this without
additional danger to anyone. Not that it would be
more than a vexation, unless — as their suggestion
about finding the Ungarn meteorite indicated —
22
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
they headed straight out to space. Then, why, it
might actually cause real delay. He began swiftly :
“Press the key marked ‘Titles,’ and the machine
will type all the main headings.”
“That sounds reasonable.” The long, grim-faced
head nodded. The Dreegh reached forward,
pressed the button. The recorder hummed softly,
and a section of it lit up, showing typed lines un-
der a transparent covering. There were several
headings.
“ — ‘His Meteorite Home,’ ” the Dreegh read.
“That’s what I want. What is the next step?"
“Press the key marked ‘Subheads.’ ”
Leigh was suddenly shaky. He groaned in-
wardly. Was it possible this creature-man was
going to obtain the information he wanted? Cer-
tainly, such a tremendous intelligence would not
easily be led away from logical sequence.
He forced himself to grimness. He’d have to
take a chance.
“The subhead I desire,” said the Dreegh, “is
marked ‘Location.’ And there is a number, one.
in front of it. What next?"
“Press Key No. 1," Leigh sai,d, "then press the
key lettered ‘General Release.’ ”
The moment he had spoken, he grew taut. If this
worked — and it should. There was no reason why
it shouldn’t.
Key No. 1 would impart all the information
under that heading. And surely the man would
not want more until later. After all, this was only
a test. They were in a hurry.
And later, when the Dreegh discovered that the
“General Release" key had dissolved all the other
information — it would be too late.
The thought dimmed. Leigh started. The
Dreegh was staring at him with a bleak sar-
donicism. The man said:
“Your voice has been like an organ; each word
uttered full of subtle shadings that mean much to
the sensitive ear. Accordingly" — a steely, fero-
cious smile twisted that lean and deadly face —
"I shall press Key No. 1. But not ‘General Re-
lease.’ And as soon as I’ve examined the little
story on the recorder, I shall attend to you for
that attempted trick. The sentence is— death."
“Jeell”
“Death!” reiterated the man flatly. And the
woman was silent.
There was silence, then, except for the subdued
humming of the recorder. Leigh’s mind was al-
most without thought. He felt fleshless, a strange,
disembodied soul; and only gradually did a curious
realization grow that he was waiting here on the
brink of a night darker than the black wastes of
space from which these monster humans had come.
Consciousness came of kinship with the black
rain that poured with such solid, noiseless power
against the glinting panes. For soon, he would
be part of the inorganic darkness — a shadowed
figure sprawling sightlessly in this dim room.
His aimless gaze returned to the recorder ma-
chine, and to the grim man who stood so thought-
fully, staring down at the words it was unfolding.
His thought quickened. His life, that had been
pressed so shockingly out of his system by the
sentence of death, quivered forth. He straight-
ened, physically and mentally. And, suddenly,
there was purpose in him.
It death was inescapable, at least he could try
again, somehow, to knock down that “General Re-
lease" key. He stared at the key, measuring the
distance; and the gray thought came: What in-
credible irony that he should die, that he should
waste his effort, to prevent the Dreeghs from hav-
ing this minute information that was available
from ten thousand sources. And yet —
The purpose remained. Three feet, he thought
carefully, perhaps four. It he should fling himself
toward it, how could even a Dreegh prevent the
dead weight of his body and his extended fingers
from accomplishing such a simple, straightforward
mission?
After all, his sudden action had once before frus-
trated the Dreeghs, permitting the Ungarn girl —
in spite of her denials — to get her gun into posi-
tion for firing. And —
He grew rigid as he saw that the Dreegh was
turning away from the machine. The man pursed
his lips, but it was the woman, Merla, who spoke
from where she stood in the gloom:
"Well?”
The man frowned. "The exact location is no-
where on record. Apparently, there has been no
development of meteorites in this system. I sus-
pected as much. After all, space travel has only
existed a hundred years; and the new planets and
the moons of Jupiter have absorbed all the ener-
gies of exploring, exploiting man.”
“I could have told you that," said Leigh.
If he could move a little to one side of the re-
corder, so that the Dreegh would have to do more
than simply put his arm out —
The man waB saying: ‘‘There is, however, a
reference to some man who transports food and
merchandise from the moon Europa to the Un-
garns. We will . . . er . . . persuade this man to
show us the way."
“One of these days," said Leigh, "you’re going
to discover that all human beings cannot be per-
suaded. What pressure are you going to put on
this chap? Suppose he hasn’t got a mother."
"He has — life!" said the woman, softly.
“One look at you,” Leigh snapped, “and he'd
know that he’d lose that, anyway.”
As he spoke, he stepped with enormous casual-
ness to the left, one short step. He had a violent
impulse to say something, anything to cover the
action. But his voice had betrayed him once.
ASYLUM
23
And actually it might already have done so again.
The cold face of the man was almost too enigmatic.
“We could,” said the woman, “use William
Leigh to persuade him.”
The words were softly spoken, but they shocked
Leigh to his bones. For they offered a distorted
hope. And that shattered his will to action. His
purpose faded into remoteness. Almost grimly,
he fought to draw that hard determination back
into his consciousness. He concentrated his gaze
on the recorder machine, but the woman was speak-
ing again; and his mind wouldn't hold anything
except the urgent meaning of her words:
"He is too valuable a slave to destroy. We can
always take his blood and energy, but now we
must send him to Europa, there to find the
freighter pilot of the Ungarns, and actually ac-
company him to the Ungarn meteorite. If he
could investigate the interior, our attack might
conceivably be simplified, and there is just a pos-
sibility that there might be new weapons, of which
we should be informed. We must not underesti-
mate the science of the great Galactics.
“Naturally, before we allowed Leigh his free-
dom, we would do a little tampering with his mind,
and so blot out from his conscious mind all that
has happened in this hotel room.
“The identification of Professor Ungarn as the
Galactic Observer we would make plausible for
Leigh by a little rewriting of his psychograph re-
port; and tomorrow he will waken in his bed with
a new purpose, based on some simple human im-
pulse such as love of the girl.”
The very fact that the Dreegh, Jeel, was allow-
ing her to go on, brought the first, faint color to
Leigh’s cheeks, a thin flush at the enormous series
of betrayals she was so passionately expecting
of him. Nevertheless, so weak was his resistance
to the idea of continued life, that he could only
snap:
“If you think I'm going to fall in love with a
dame who’s got twice my I. Q., you’re — ”
The woman cut him off. “Shut up, you fool!
Can’t you see I’ve saved your life?”
The man was cold, ice-cold. “Yes, we shall use
him, not because he is essential, but because we
have time to search for easier victories. The first
members of the Dreegh tribe will not arrive for a
month and a half, and it will take Mr. Leigh a
month of that to get to the moon, Europa, by one
of Earth’s primitive passenger liners. Fortunately,
the nearest Galactic military base is well over
three months distant — by Galactic ship speeds.
“Finally” — with a disconcerting, tigerish swift-
ness, the Dreegh whirled full upon Leigh, eyes
that were like pools of black fire measured his
own startled stare — “finally, as a notable reminder
to your subconscious of the error of trickery, and
as complete punishment for past and — intended —
offenses, this!”
Despairingly, Leigh twisted away from the
metal that glowed at him. His muscles tried hor-
ribly to carry out the purpose that had been work-
ing to a crisis inside him. He lunged for the re-
corder — but something caught his body. Some-
thing — not physical. But the very pain seemed
mortal.
There was no visible flame of energy, only that
glow at the metal source. But his nerves writhed ;
enormous forces contorted his throat muscles,
froze the scream that quivered there, hideously.
His whole being welcomed the blackness that
came mercifully to blot out the hellish pain. .
VI.
On the third day, Europa began to give up some
of the sky to the vast mass of Jupiter behind it.
The engines that so imperfectly transformed mag-
netic attraction to a half-hearted repulsion func-
tioned more and more smoothly as the infinite com-
plication of pull and counterpull yielded to dis-
tance.
The old, slow, small freighter scurried on into
the immense, enveloping night; and the days
dragged into weeks, the weeks crawled their drab
course toward the full month.
On the thirty-seventh day, the sense of slowing
up was so distinct that Leigh crept dully out of
his bunk, and croaked:
“How much farther?"
He was aware of the stolid-faced space trucker
24
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
grinning at him. The man’s name was Hanardy,
and he said now matter-of-factly :
“We're just pulling in. See that spot of light
over to the left? It’s moving this way.”
He ended with a rough sympathy. “Been a tough
trip, eh? Tougher ’n you figgered when you offered
to write up my little route for your big syndicate.”
Leigh scarcely heard. He was clawing at the
porthole, straining to penetrate the blackness. At
first his eyes kept blinking on him, and nothing
came. Stars were out there, but it was long sec-
onds before his bleary gaze made out moving
lights. He counted them with sluggish puzzle-
ment :
“One, two, three — seven — " he counted. “And
all traveling •together.”
“What’s that?” Hanardy bent beside him.
“Seven?”
There was a brief silence between them, as the
lights grew visibly dim with distance, and winked
out.
“Too bad," Leigh ventured, “that Jupiter's be-
hind us. They mightn’t fade out like that in
silhouette. Which one was Ungarn’s meteorite?"
With a shock, he grew aware that Hanardy was
standing. The man’s heavy face was dark with
frown. Hanardy said slowly:
“Those were ships. I never saw ships go so
fast before. They were out of sight in less than
a minute."
The frown faded from his stolid face. He
shrugged. “Some of those new police ships, I
guess. And we must have seen them from a funny
angle for them to disappear so fast."
Leigh half sat, half knelt, frozen into immo-
bility. And after that one swift glance at the
pilot’s rough face, he averted his own. For a mo-
ment, the black fear was in him that his wild
thoughts would blaze from his eyes.
Dreeghs! Two and a half months had wound
their appallingly slow course since the murders.
More than a month to get from Earth to Europa,
and now this miserable, lonely journey with Han-
ardy, the man who trucked for the Ungarns.
Every day of that time, he had known with an
inner certainty that none of this incredible busi-
ness had gone backward. That it could only have
assumed a hidden, more dangerous form. The one
fortunate reality in the whole mad affair was that
he had wakened on the morning after the mechani-
cal psychologist test from a dreamless sleep; and
there in the psychograph report was the identifica-
tion of Ungarn as the Observer, and the statement,
borne out by an all too familiar emotional tension,
that he was in love with the girl.
Now thisl His mind flared. Dreeghs in seven
ships. That meant the first had been reinforced
by — many. And perhaps the seven were only a
reconnaissance group, withdrawing at Hanardy’s
approach.
Or perhaps those fantastic murderers had al-
ready attacked the Observer’s base. Perhaps the
girl—
He fought the desperate thought out of his con-
sciousness, and watched, frowning, as the Ungarn
meteorite made a dark, glinting path in the black-
ness to one side. The two objects, the ship and
the bleak, rough-shaped mass of metallic stone
drew together in the night, the ship slightly be-
hind.
A great steel door slid open in the rock. Skill-
fully, the ship glided into the chasm. There was
a noisy clicking. Hanardy came out of the control
room, his face dark with puzzlement.
“Those damn ships are out there again," he said.
“I’ve closed the big steel locks, but I’d better tell
the professor and — ”
Crash! The world jiggled. The floor came up
and hit Leigh a violent blow. He lay there, cold
in spite of the thoughts that burned at fire heat,
in his mind :
For some reason, the vampires had waited until
the freighter was inside. Then instantly, fero-
ciously, attacked.
In packs!
“Hanardy!" A vibrant girl's voice blared from
one of the loud-speakers.
The pilot sat up shakily on the floor, where he
had fallen, near Leigh. “Yes, Miss Patricia."
“You dared to bring a stranger with you!"
“It’s only a reporter, miss; he’s writing up my
route for me."
“You conceited fool! That’s William Leigh.
He’s a hypnotized spy of those devils who are at-
tacking us. Bring him immediately to my apart-
ments. He must be killed at once.”
“Huh!” Leigh began; and then slowly he began
to stiffen. For the pilot was staring at him from
narrowing eyes, all the friendliness gone from his
rough, heavy face. Finally, Leigh laughed curtly.
“Don’t you be a fool, too, Hanardy. I made the
mistake once of saving that young lady’s life, and
she’s hated me ever since.”
The heavy face scowled at him. “So you knew
her before, eh? You didn’t tell me, that. You'd
better come along before I sock you one.”
Almost awkwardly, he drew the gun from his
side holster, and pointed its ugly snout at Leigh.
“Get along!” he said.
Hanardy reached toward a tiny arrangement of
lights beside the paneled door of Patricia Ungarn’s
apartment — and Leigh gave one leap, one blow.
He caught the short, heavy body as it fell, grabbed
at the sagging gun, lowered the dead weight to
the floor of the corridor; and then, for a grim,
tense moment, he stood like a great animal, strain-
ing for sound.
ASYLUM
25
Silence! He studied the bland panels of the
doorway to the apartment, as if by sheer, savage
intentness he would penetrate their golden, beauti-
fully grained opaqueness.
It was the silence that struck him again after
a moment, the emptiness of the long, tunnellike
corridors. He thought, amazed : Was it possible
father and daughter actually lived here without
companions or servants or any human association?
And that they had some idea that they could with-
stand the attack of the mighty and terrible
Dreeghs?
They had a lot of stuff here, of course: Earth-
like gravity and — and, by Heaven, he’d better get
going before the girl acquired impatience and came
out with one of her fancy weapons. What he must
do was quite simple, unconnected with any non-
sense of spying, hypnotic or otherwise.
He must find the combination automobile-space-
ship in which — Mr. Patrick — had escaped him that
night after they left Constantine's. And with that
tiny ship, he must try to slip out of Ungarn’s
meteorite, sneak through the Dreegh line, and so
head back for Earth.
What a fool he had been, a mediocre human be-
ing, mixing in such fast, brainy company. The
world was full of more normal, thoroughly dumb
girls. Why in hell wasn’t he safely married to one
of them and — and damn it, it was time he got busy.
He began laboriously to drag Hanardy along the
smooth flooring. Halfway to the nearest corner,
the man stirred. Instantly, quite coolly, Leigh
struck him with the revolver butt, hard. This was
not time for squeamishness.
The pilot dropped: and the rest was simple. He
deserted the body as soon as he had pulled it out
of sight behind the corner, and raced along the
hallway, trying doors. The first four wouldn't
open. At the fifth, he pulled up in a dark con-
sideration.
It was impossible that the whole place was
locked up. Two people in an isolated meteorite
wouldn’t go around perpetually locking and un-
locking doors. There must be a trick catch.
There was. The fifth door yielded to a simple
pressure on a tiny, half-hidden push button, that
had seemed an integral part of the design of the
latch. He stepped through the entrance, then
started back in brief, terrible shock.
The room had no ceiling. Above him was —
space. An ice-cold blast of air swept at him.
He had a flashing glimpse of gigantic machines
in the room, machines that dimly resembled the
ultramodern astronomical observatory on the moon
that he had visited on opening day two days be-
fore. That one, swift look was all Leigh allowed
himself. Then he stepped back into the hallway.
The door of the observatory closed automatically
in his face.
He stood there, chagrined. Silly fool ! The very
fact that cold air had blown at him showed that the
open effect of the ceiling was only an illusion of
invisible glass. Good Lord, in that room might
be wizard ttlescopes that could see to the stars.
Or — an ugly thrill raced along his spine — he might
have seen the Dreeghs attacking.
He shook out of his system the brief, abnormal
desire to look again. This was no time for dis-
tractions. For, by now, the girl must know that
something was wrong.
At top speed, Leigh ran to the sixth door. It
opened into a little cubbyhole. A blank moment
passed before he recogriized what it was.
An elevator!
He scrambled in. The farther he got away from
the residential floor, the less the likelihood of
quick discovery.
He turned to close the door, and saw that it was
shutting automatically. It clicked softly; the ele-
vator immediately began to go up. Piercingly
sharp doubt came to Leigh. The machine was ap-
parently geared to go to some definite point. And
that could be very bad.
His eyes searched hastily for controls. But
nothing was visible. Gun poised, he stood grim
and alert, as the elevator stopped. The door slid
open.
Leigh stared. There was no room. The door
opened — onto blackness.
Not the blacknesB of space with its stars. Or
a dark room, half revealed by the light from the
elevator. But — blackness!
Impenetrable.
Leigh put a tentative hand forward, half expect-
ing to feel a solid object. But as his hand entered
the black area, it vanished. He jerked it backhand
stared at it, dismayed. It shone with a light of its
own, all the bones plainly visible.
Swiftly, the light faded, the skin became opaque,
but his whole arm pulsed with a pattern of pain.
The stark, terrible thought came that this could
be a death chamber. After all. the elevator had
deliberately brought him here; it might not have
been automatic. Outside forces could have di-
rected it. True, he had stepped in of his own free
will, but —
Fool, fool!
He laughed bitterly, braced himself — and then
it happened.
There was a flash out of the blackness. Some-
thing that sparkled vividly, something material
that blazed a brilliant path to his forehead — and
drew itself inside his head. And then —
He was no longer in the elevator. On either
side of him stretched a long corridor. The stocky
Hanardy was just reaching for some tiny lights
beside the door of Patricia Ungarn’s apartment.
The man’s fingers touched one of the lights. It
dimmed. Softly, the door opened. A young woman
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
with proud, insolent eyes and a queenlike bearing
stood there.
“Father wants you down on Level 4,” she said
to Hanardy. “One of the energy screens has gone
down; and he needs some machine work before
he can put up another.”
She turned to Leigh; her voice took on metallic
overtones as she said : “Mr. Leigh, you can
come in!”
The crazy part of it was that he walked in with
scarcely a physical tremor. A cool breeze caressed
his cheeks; and there was the liltinglv sweet sound
of birds singing in the distance. Leigh stood stock-
still for a moment after he had entered, dazed
partly by the wonders of the room and the unbe-
lievable sunlit garden beyond the French windows,
partly by — what?
What had happened to him ?
Gingerly, he put his hands to his head, and felt
his forehead, then his whole head. But nothing
was wrong, not a contusion, not a pain. He grew
aware of the girl staring at him, and realization
came that his actions must seem unutterably queer.
“What is the matter with you?” the girl asked.
Leigh looked at her with abrupt, grim suspicion.
He snapped harshly: “Don’t pull that innocent
stuff. I've been up in the blackness room, and all
I've got to say is, if you’re going to kill me, don't
skulk behind artificial night and other trickery."
The girl’s eyes, he saw, were narrowed, unpleas-
antly cold. “I don't know what you’re trying to
pretend,” she said icily. “I assure you it will
not postpone the death we have to deal you.”
She hesitated, then finished sharply : "The what
room?”
Leigh explained grimly, puzzled by her puzzle-
ment, then annoyed by the contemptuous smile
that grew into her face. She cut him off curtly:
"I’ve never heard a less balanced story. If your
intention was to astound me and delay your death
with that improbable tale, it has failed. You must
be mad. You didn’t knock out Hanardy, because
when I opened the door, Hanardy was there, and
I sent him down to father.”
“See here!” Leigh began. He stopped wildly.
By Heaven, Hanardy had been there as she opened
the door!
And yet earlier —
WHEN?
Doggedly, Leigh pushed the thought on:
Earlier, he had attacked Hanardy. And then he —
Leigh — had gone up in an elevator; and then,
somehow, back and —
Shakily, he felt his head again. And it was ab-
solutely normal. Only, he thought, there was
something inside it that sparkled.
Something —
With a start, he grew aware that the girl was
quite deliberately drawing a gun from a pocket of
her simple white dress. He stared at the weapon,
and before its gleaming menace, his thoughts
faded, all except the deadly consciousness that
what he had said had delayed her several minutes
now. It was the only thing that could delay her
further until, somehow —
The vague hope wouldn’t finish. Urgently, he
said:
“I’m going to assume you’re genuinely puzzled
by my words. Let’s begin at the beginning.
There is such a room, is there not?”
"Please,” said the girl wearily, “let us not have
any of your logic. My I. Q. is 243, yours is 112.
So I assure you I am quite capable of reasoning
from any beginning you can think of.”
She went on, her low voice as curt as the sound
of struck steel : “There is no ‘blackness’ room,
as you call it, no sparkling thing that crawls inside
a human head. There is but one fact: The
Dreeghs in their visit to your hotel room, hypno-
tized you; and this curious mind illusion can only
be a result of that hypnotism — don’t argue with
With a savage gesture of her gun, she cut off
his attempt to speak. “There’s no time. For some
reason, the Dreeghs did something to you. Why?
What did you see in those rooms?”
Even as he explained and described, Leigh was
thinking chilly:
He'd have to catch hold of himself, get a plan,
however risky, and carry it through. The purpose
was tight and cold in his mind as he obeyed her
motion, and went ahead of her into the corridor.
It was there, an icy determination, as he counted
the doors from the corner where he had left the
unconscious Hanardy.
“One, two, three, four, five. This door!” he
said.
“Open it!” the girl gestured.
He did so ; and his lower jaw sagged. He was
staring into a fine, cozy room filled with shelf on
shelf of beautifully bound books. There were
comfortable chairs, a magnificent rag rug and —
It was the girl who closed the door firmly and —
he trembled with the tremendousness of the op-
portunity— she walked ahead of him to the sixth
door.
“And this is your elevator?”
Leigh nodded mutely; and because his whole
body was shaking, he was only dimly surprised
that there was no elevator, but a long, empty,
silent corridor.
The girl was standing with her back partly to
him; and if he hit her, it would knock her hard
against the door jamb and —
The sheer brutality of the thought was what
stopped him, held him for the barest second — as
the girl whirled, and looked straight into his eyes.
Her gun was up, pointing steadily. “Not that
ASYLUM
27
way,” she said quietly. “For a moment I was wish-
ing you would have the nerve to try it. But, after
all, that would be the weak way for me.”
Her eyes glowed with a fierce pride. “After all,
I’ve killed before through necessity, and hated it.
You can see yourself that, because of what the
Dreeghs have done to you, it is necessary. So — ”
Her voice took on a whiplash quality. “So back
to my rooms. I have a space lock there to get rid
of your body. Get going!”
It was the emptiness, the silence except for the
faint click of their shoes that caught at Leigh’s
nerves, as he walked hopelessly back to the apart-
ment. This meteorite hurtling darkly through the
remote wastes of the Solar System, pursued and
attacked by deadly ships from the fixed stars, and
himself inside it, under sentence of death, the
executioner to be a girl —
And that was the devastating part. He couldn’t
begin to argue with this damnable young woman,
for every word would sound like pleading. The
very thought of mentally getting down on his
knees to any woman was paralyzing.
The singing of the birds, as he entered the
apartment, perked him violently out of his black
passion. Abruptly marveling, he walked to the
stately French windows, and stared at the glori-
ous summery garden.
At least two acres of green wonder spread before
him, a blaze of flowers, trees where gorgeously
colored birds fluttered and trilled, a wide, deep
pool of green, green water, and over all, the glory
of brilliant sunshine.
It was the sunshine that held Leigh finally; and
he stood almost breathless for a long minute before
it seemed that he had the solution. He said in a
hushed voice, without turning:
“The roof — is an arrangement — of magnifying
glass. It makes the Sun as big as on Earth. Is
that the — ”
"You'd better turn around,” came the hostile,
vibrant voice from behind him. “I don’t shoot
people in the back. And I want to get this over
with.”
It was the moralistic smugness of her words that
shook every muscle in Leigh’s body. He whirled,
and raged:
“You damned little Klugg. You can’t shoot me
in the back, eh? Oh, no! And you couldn't pos-
sibly shoot me while I was attacking you because
that would be the weak way. It’s all got to be
made right with your conscience.”
He stopped so short that, if he had been running
instead of talking, he would have stumbled.
Figuratively, almost literally, he saw Patricia Un-
garn for the first time since his arrival. His mind
had been so concentrated, so absorbed by deadly
things that —
— For the first time as a woman.
Leigh drew a long breath. Dressed as a man,
she had been darkly handsome in an extremely
youthful fashion. Now she wore a simple, snow-
white sports dress. It was scarcely more than a
tunic, and came well above her knees.
Her hair shone with a brilliant brownness, and
cascaded down to her shoulders. Her bare arms
and legs gleamed a deep, healthy tan. Sandals
pure white graced her feet. Her face —
The impression of extraordinary beauty yielded
to the amazing fact that her perfect cheeks were
flushing vividly. The girl snapped:
“Don't you dare use that word to me.”
She must have been utterly beside herself. Her
fury was such an enormous fact that Leigh
gasped; and he couldn’t have stopped himself from
saying what he did, if the salvation of his soul
had depended on it.
“Klugg!" he said, “Klugg, Klugg, Klugg! So
you realize now that the Dreeghs had you down
pat, that all your mighty pretensions was simply
your Klugg mind demanding pretentious com-
pensation for a dreary, lonely life. You had to
think you were somebody, and yet all the time
you must have known they’d only ship the tenth-
raters to these remote posts. Klugg, not even
Lennel; the Dreegh woman wouldn’t even grant
you Lennel status, whatever that is. And she’d
know. Because if you’re I. Q. 243, the Dreeghs
were 400. You’ve realized that, too, haven’t you?”
“Shut up! Or I’ll kill you by inches!" said
Patricia Ungarn; and Leigh was amazed to see
that she was as white as a sheet. The astounded
realization came that he had struck, not only the
emotional Achilles heel of this strange and terri-
ble young woman, but the very vital roots of her
mental existence.
“So,” he said deliberately, “the high morality
is growing dim. Now you can torture me to death
without a qualm. And to think that I came here
to ask you to marry me because I thought a Klugg
and a human being might get along.”
“You what?” said the girl. Then she sneered.
“So that was the form of .their hypnotism. They
would use some simple impulse for a simple human
mind.
“But now I think we’ve had just about enough.
I know just the type of thoughts that come to a
male human in love; and even the realization that
you’re not responsible makes the very idea none
the less bearable. I feel sickened, utterly insulted.
Know, please, that my future husband is arriving
with the reinforcements three weeks from now.
He will be trained to take over father’s work — ’’
“Another Klugg!” said Leigh, and the girl
turned shades whiter.
Leigh stood utterly thunderstruck. In all his
life, he had never gotten anybody going the way
he had this young girl. The intellectual mask
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
was off, and underneath was a seething mass of
emotions bitter beyond the power of words to
express. Here was evidence of a life so lonely that
it strained his imagination. Her every word
showed an incredible pent-up masochism as well
as sadism, for she was torturing herself as well
as him.
And he couldn’t stop now to feel sorry for her.
His life was at stake, and only more words could
postpone death — or bring the swift and bearable
surcease of a gun fired in sudden passion. He
hammered on grimly:
“I'd like to ask one question. How did you find
out my I. Q. was 112? What special interest made
you inquire about that? Is it possible that, all by
yourself here, you, too, had a special type of
thought, and that, though your intellect rejected
the very idea of such lowly love, its existence is
the mainspring behind your fantastic determina-
tion to kill, rather than cure me? I — ”
“That will do,” interrupted Patricia Ungarn.
It required one lengthy moment for Leigh to
realize that in those few short seconds she had
pulled herself completely together.
He stared in gathering alarm, as her gun mo-
tioned toward a door he had not seen before.
She said curtly:
“I suppose there is a solution other than death.
That is, immediate death. And I have decided to
accept the resultant loss of my spaceship.”
She nodded at the door: “It’s there in the air
lock. It works very simply. The steering wheel
pulls up or down or sideways, and that’s the way
the ship will go. Just step on the accelerator,
and the machine will go forward. The decelerator
is the left pedal. The automobile wheels fold in
automatically as soon as they lift from the floor.
“Now, get going. I need hardly tell you that the
Dreeghs will probably catch you. But you can’t
stay here. That’s obvious."
“Thanks !” That was all Leigh allowed himself
to say. He had exploded an emotional powder keg,
and he dared not tamper even a single word fur-
ther. There was a tremendous psychological mys-
tery here, but it was not for him to solve.
Suddenly shaky from realization of what was
still ahead of him, he walked gingerly toward the
air lock. And then —
It happened!
He had a sense of unutterable nausea. There was
a wild swaying through blackness and —
He was standing at the paneled doorway leading
from the corridor to Patricia Ungarn's apartment.
Beside him stood Hanardy. The door opened.
The young woman who stood there said strangely
familiar words to Hanardy, about going down to
the fourth level to fix an energy screen. Then
she turned to Leigh, and in a voice hard and
metallic said :
“Mr. Leigh, you can come in.”
VII.
The crazy part of it was that he walked in with
scarcely a physical tremor. A cool breeze caressed
his cheeks; and there was the liltingly sweet sound
of birds singing in the distance. Leigh stood stock-
still for a moment after he had entered; by sheer
will power he emptied the terrible daze out of his
mind, and bent, mentally, into the cyclone path of
complete memory. Everything was there suddenly,
the way the Dreeghs had come to his hotel apart-
ment and ruthlessly forced him to their will, the
way the “blackness” room had affected him, and
how the girl had spared his life.
For some reason, the whole scene with the girl
had been unsatisfactory to — Jeel; and it was now,
fantastically, to be repeated.
That thought ended. The entire, tremendous
reality of what had happened yielded to a vastly
greater fact:
There was — something — inside his head, a dis-
tinctly physical something; and in a queer, horri-
ble, inexperienced way, his mind was instinctively
fighting — it. The result was ghastly confusion.
Which hurt him, not the thing.
Whatever it was, rested inside his head, unaf-
fected by his brain’s feverish contortions, cold,
aloof, watching.
ASYLUM
29
Watching.
Madly, then, he realized what it was. Another
mind. Leigh shrank from the thought as from the
purest destroying fire. He tensed his brain. For
a moment the frenzy of his horror was so great
that his face twisted with the anguish of his ef-
forts. And everything blurred.
Exhausted finally, he simply stood there. And
the thing-mind was still inside his head.
Untouched.
What had happened to him?
Shakily, Leigh put his hands up to his forehead;
then he felt his whole head; there was a vague
idea in him that if he pressed —
He jerked his hands down with an unspoken
curse. Damnation on damnation, he was even re-
peating the actions of this scene. He grew aware
of the girl staring at him. He heard her say:
“What is the matter with you?”
It was the sound of the words, exactly the same
words, that did it. He smiled wryly. His mind
drew back from the abyss, where it had teetered.
He was sane again.
Gloomy recognition came then that his brain
was still a long way down; sane yes, but dispirited.
It was only too obvious that the girl had no mem-
ory of the previous scene, or she wouldn’t be par-
rotting. She’d —
That thought stopped, too. Because a strange
thing was happening. The mind inside him
stirred, and looked through his — Leigh’s — eyes.
Looked intently.
Intently.
The room and the girl in it changed, not physi-
cally, but subjectively, in what he saw, in the —
details.
Details burned at him; furniture and design that
a moment before had seemed a flowing, artistic
whole, abruptly showed flaws, hideous errors in
taste and arrangement and structure.
His gaze flashed out to the garden, and in in-
stants tore it to mental shreds. Never in all his
existence had he seen or felt criticism on such a
high, devastating scale. Only —
Only it wasn’t criticism. Actually. The mind
was indifferent. It saw things. Automatically, it
saw some of the possibilities; and by comparison
the reality suffered.
It was not a matter of anything being hopelessly
bad. The wrongness was frequently a subtle
thing. Birds not suited, for a dozen reasons, to
their environment. Shrubs that added infinitesi-
mal discord not harmony to the superb garden.
The mind flashed back from the garden; and
this time, for the first time, studied the girl.
On all Earth, no woman had ever been so pierc-
ingly examined. The structure of her body and
her face, to Leigh so finely, proudly shaped, so
gloriously patrician — found low grade now.
An excellent example of low-grade development
in isolation.
That was the thought, not contemptuous, not
derogatory, simply an impression by an appal-
lingly direct mind that saw — overtones, realities
behind realities, a thousand facts where one
showed.
There followed crystal-clear awareness of the
girl’s psychology, objective admiration for the
system of isolated upbringing that made Klugg
girls such fine breeders; and then —
Purpose!
Instantly carried out. Leigh took three swift
steps toward the girl. He was aware of her snatch-
ing at the gun in her pocket, and there was the
sheerest startled amazement on her face. Then he
had her.
Her muscles writhed like steel springs. But they
were hopeless against his superstrength, his super-
speed. He tied her with some wire he had noticed
in a half-opened clothes closet.
Then he stepped back, and to Leigh came the
shocked personal thought of the incredible thing
that had happened, comprehension that all this,
which seemed so normal, was actually so devastat-
ingly superhuman, so swift that — seconds only had
passed since he came into the room.
Private thought ended. He grew aware of the
mind, contemplating what it had done, and what
it must do before the meteorite would be com-
pletely under control.
Vampire victory was near.
There was a phase of walking along empty
corridors, down several flights of stairs. The
vague, dull thought came to Leigh, his own per-
sonal thought, that the Dreegh seemed to know
completely the interior of the meteorite.
Somehow, during the periods of — transition, of
time manipulation, the creature-mind must have
used his, Leigh’s, body to explore the vast tomb
of a place thoroughly. And now, with utter sim-
plicity of purpose — he was heading for the ma-
chine shops on the fourth level, where Professor
Ungarn and Hanardy labored to put up another
energy defense screen.
He found Hanardy alone, working at a lathe
that throbbed — and the sound made it easy to
sneak up —
The professor was in a vast room, where great
engines hummed a strange, deep tune of titanic
power. He was a tall man, and his back was
turned to the door, as Leigh entered.
But he was immeasurably quicker than Hanardy,
quicker even than the girl. He sensed danger.
He whirled with a catlike agility. Literally. And
succumbed instantly to muscles that could have
torn him limb from limb. It was during the bind-
ing of the man’s hands that Leigh had time for an
impression.
30
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
In the photographs that Leigh had seen, as he
had told the Dreegh, Merla, in the hotel, the pro-
fessor’s face had been sensitive, tired-looking,
withal noble. He was more than that, tremen-
dously more.
The man radiated power, as no photograph could
show it, good power in contrast to the savage,
malignant, immensely greater power of the
Dreegh.
The sense of power faded before the aura of —
weariness. Cosmic weariness. It was a lined, an
amazingly lined face. In a flash, Leigh remem-
bered what the Dreegh woman had said; and it was
all there: deep-graven lines of tragedy and untold
mental suffering, interlaced with a curious peace-
fulness, like — resignation.
On that night months ago. he had asked the
Dreegh woman: Resignation to what? And now,
here in this tortured, kindly face was the answer :
Resignation to hell.
Queerly, an unexpected second answer trickled
in his mind: Morons; they’re Galactic morons.
Kluggs.
The thought seemed to have no source; but it
gathered with all the fury of a storm. Professor
Ungarn and his daughter were Kluggs, morons in
the incredible Galactic sense. No wonder the girl
had reacted like a crazy person. Obviously born
here, she must have only guessed the truth in the
last two months.
The I. Q. of human morons wavered between
seventy-five and ninety, of Kluggs possibly be-
tween two hundred and twenty-five and, say, two
hundred and forty-three.
Two hundred and forty-three. What kind of
civilization was this Galactic — if Dreeghs were
four hundred and —
Somebody, of course, had to do the dreary,
routine work of civilization; and Kluggs and Len-
nels and their kind were obviously elected. No
wonder they looked like morons with that weight
of inferiority to influence their very nerve and
muscle structure. No wonder whole planets were
kept in ignorance —
Leigh left the professor tied hand and foot, and
began to turn off power switches. Some of the
great motors were slowing noticeably as he went
out of that mighty engine room; the potent hum
of power dimmed.
Back in the girl’s room, he entered the air lock,
climbed into the small automobile spaceship — and
launched into the night.
Instantly, the gleaming mass of meteorite re-
ceded into the darkness behind him. Instantly,
magnetic force rays caught his tiny craft, and
drew it remorselessly toward the hundred and fifty
foot, cigar-shaped machine that flashed out of the
darkness.
He felt the spy rays; and he must have been
recognized. For another ship flashed up to claim
him.
Air locks opened noiselessly — and shut. Sickly,
Leigh stared at the two Dreeghs, the tall man and
the tall woman; and, as from a great distance,
heard himself explaining what he had done.
Dimly, hopelessly, he wondered why he should
have to explain. Then he heard Jeel say:
“Merla, this is the most astoundingly successful
case of hypnotism in our existence. He’s done —
everything. Even the tiniest thoughts we put into
his mind have been carried out to the letter. And
the proof is, the screens are going down. With
the control of this station, we can hold out even
after the Galactic warships arrive — and fill our
tankers and our energy reservoirs for ten thousand
years. Do you hear, ten thousand years?"
His excitement died. He smiled with sudden,
dry understanding as he looked at the woman.
Then he said laconically:
"My dear, the reward is all yours. We could
have broken down those screens in another twelve
hours, but it would have meant the destruction of
the meteorite. This victory is so much greater.
Take your reporter. Satisfy your craving — while
the rest of us prepare for the occupation. Mean-
while, I’ll tie him up for you.”
Leigh thought, a cold, remote thought: The
kiss of death —
He shivered in sudden, appalled realization of
what he had done —
He lay on the couch, where Jeel had tied him.
He was surprised, after a moment, to notice that,
though the mind had withdrawn into the back-
ground of his brain — it was still there, cold, steely,
abnormally conscious.
The wonder came: what possible satisfaction
could Jeel obtain from experiencing the mortal
thrill of death with him? These people were ut-
terly abnormal, of course, but —
The wonder died like dry grass under a heat
ray, as the woman came into the room, and glided
toward him. She smiled; she sat down on the
edge of the couch.
“So here you are," she said.
She was, Leigh thought, like a tigress. There
was purpose in every cunning muscle of her long
body. In surprise he saw that she had changed
her dress. She wore a sleek, flimsy, sheeny, tight-
fitting gown that set off in startling fashion her
golden hair and starkly white face. Utterly fasci-
nated, he watched her. Almost automatically, he
said :
“Yes, I’m here.”
Silly words. But he didn’t feel silly. Tenseness
came the moment he had spoken. It was her eyes
that did it. For the first time since he had first
seen her. her eyes struck him like a blow. Blue
eyes, and steady. So steady. Not the steady
ASYLUM
31
frankness of honesty. But steady — like dead eyes.
A chill grew on Leigh, a special, extra chill,
adding to the ice that was already there inside
him; and the unholy thought came that this was
a dead woman — artificially kept alive by the blood
and life of dead men and women.
She smiled, but the bleakness remained in those
cold, fish eyes. No smile, no warmth could ever
bring light to that chill, beautiful countenance.
But she smiled the form of a smile, and she said:
"We Dreeghs live a hard, lonely life. So lonely
that sometimes I cannot help thinking our strug-
gle to remain alive is a blind, mad thing. We’re
what we are through no fault of our own. It
happened during an interstellar flight that took
place a million years ago — ”
She stopped, almost hopelessly. “It seems
longer. It must be longer. I've really lost track.”
She went on, suddenly grim, as if the memory,
the very telling, brought a return of horror: “We
were among several thousand holidayers who were
caught in the gravitational pull of a sun, after-
ward called the Dreegh sun.
“Its rays, immensely dangerous to human life,
infected us all. It was discovered that only con-
tinuous blood tranfusions, and the life force of
other human beings could save us. For a while we
received donations; then the government decided
to have us destroyed as hopeless incurables.
"We were all young, terribly young and in love
with life; some hundreds of us had been expecting
the sentence, and we still had friends in the be-
ginning. We escaped, and we’ve been fighting
ever since to stay alive.”
And still he could feel no sympathy. It was
odd, for all the thoughts she urrdoubtedly wanted
him to have, came. Picture of a bleak, endless
existence in spaceships, staring out into the per-
petual night; all life circumscribed by the tireless,
abnormal needs of bodies gone mad from ravenous
disease.
It was all there, all the emotional pictures. But
no emotions came. She was too cold; the years
and that devil's hunt had stamped her soul and
her eyes and her face.
And besides, her body seemed tenser now, lean-
ing toward him, bending forward closer, closer,
till he could hear her slow, measured breathing.
Even her eyes suddenly held the vaguest inner
light — her whole being quivered with the chill
tensity of her purpose; when she spoke, she almost
breathed the words:
“I want you to kiss me, and don’t be afraid. I
shall keep you alive for days, but I must have re-
sponse, not passivity. You’re a bachelor, at least
thirty. You won’t have any more morals about
the matter than I. But you must let your whole
body yield.”
He didn’t believe it. Her face hovered six inches
above his; and there was such a ferocity of sup-
pressed eagerness in her that it could only mean
death.
Her lips were pursed, as if to suck, and they
quivered with a strange, tense, trembling desire,
utterly unnatural, almost obscene. Her nostrils
dilated at every breath — and no normal woman who
had kissed as often as she must have in all her
years could feel like that, if that was all she ex-
pected to get.
“Quick!” she said breathlessly. “Yield, yield!”
Leigh scarcely heard; for that other mind that
had been lingering in his brain, surged forward
in its incredible way. He heard himself say:
“I’ll trust your promise because I can’t resist
such an appeal. You can kiss your head off. I
guess I can stand it — ”
There was a blue flash, an agonizing burning
sensation that spread in a flash to every nerve of
his body.
The anguish became a series of tiny pains, like
small needles piercing a thousand bits of his flesh.
Tingling, writhing a little, amazed that he was
still alive, Leigh opened his eyes.
He felt a wave of purely personal surprise.
The woman lay slumped, lips half twisted off of
his, body collapsed hard across his chest. And the
mind, that blazing mind was there, watching — as
the tall figure of the Dreegh man sauntered into
the room, stiffened, and then darted forward.
He jerked her limp form into his arms. There
was the same kind of blue flash as their lips met,
from the man to the woman. She stirred finally,
moaning. He shook her brutally.
“You wr-jtched fool!” he raged. “How did you
let a thing like that happen? You would have
been dead in another minute, if I hadn’t come
along.”
“I — don’t — know." Her voice was thin and old.
She sank down to the floor at his feet, and slumped
there like a tired old woman. Her blond hair strag-
gled, and looked curiously faded. “I don’t know,
Jeel. I tried to get his life force, and he got mine
instead. He — ”
She stopped. Her blue eyes widened. She stag-
gered to her feet. “Jeel, he must be a spy. No
human being could do a thing like that to me.
“Jeel” — there was sudden terror in her voice —
“Jeel, get out of this room. Don’t you realize?
He’s got my energy in him. He’s lying there now,
and whatever has control of him has my energy to
work with — ”
“All right, all right.” He patted her fingers.
“I assure you he’s only a human being. And he’s
got your energy. You made a mistake, and the
flow went the wrong way. But it would take much
more than that for anyone to use a human body
successfully against us. So — ”
"You don’t understand!”
32
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Her voice shook. “Jeel, I’ve been cheating. I
don’t know what got into me, but I couldn’t get
enough life force. Every time I was able, during
the four times we stayed on Earth, I sneaked out.
"I caught men on the street. I don’t know ex-
actly how many because I dissolved their bodies
after I was through with them. But there were
dozens. And he’s got all the energy I collected,
enough for scores of years, enough for — don’t you
see? — enough for them."
“My dear!’’ The Dreegh shook her violently,
as a doctor would an hysterical woman. “For a
million years, the great ones of Galactic have
ignored us and — ”
He paused. A black frown twisted his long face.
He whirled like the tiger man he was, snatching
at his gun — as Leigh stood up.
The man Leigh was no longer surprised at —
anything. At the way the hard cords fell rotted
from his wrists and legs. At the way the Dreegh
froze rigid after one look into his eyes. For the
first shock of the tremendous, the almost cata-
clysmic truth was already in him.
“There is only one difference,” said Leigh in a
voice so vibrant that the top of his head shivered
from the unaccustomed violence of sound. “This
time there are two hundred and twenty-seven
Dreegh ships gathered in one concentrated area.
The rest — and our records show only a dozen
others — we can safely leave to our police patrols."
The Great Galactic, who had been William
Leigh, smiled darkly and walked toward his cap-
tives. “It has been a most interesting experiment
in deliberate splitting of personality. Three years
ago, our time manipulators showed this oppor-
tunity of destroying the Dreeghs, who hitherto
had escaped by reason of the vastness of our
galaxy.
“And so I came to Earth, and here built up the
character of William Leigh, reporter, complete
with family and past history. It was necessary
to withdraw into a special compartment of the
brain some nine-tenths of my mind, and to drain
completely an equal percentage of life energy.
“That was the difficulty. How to replace that
energy in sufficient degree at the proper time,
without playing the role of vampire. I constructed
a number of energy caches, but naturally at no
time had we been able to see all the future. We
could not see the details of what was to transpire
aboard this ship, or in my hotel room that night
you came, or under Constantine’s restaurant.
“Besides, if I had possessed full energy as I
approached this ship, your spy ray would have
registered it; and you would instantly have de-
stroyed my small automobile-spaceship.
“My first necessity, accordingly, was to come to
the meteorite, and obtain an initial control over
my own body through the medium of what my
Earth personality called the ‘blackness’ room.
“That Earth personality offered unexpected dif-
ficulties. In three years it had gathered momen-
tum as a personality, and that impetus made it nec-
essary to repeat a scene with Patricia Ungarn, and
to appear directly as another conscious mind, in
order to convince Leigh that he must yield. The
rest of course was a matter of gaining additional
life energy after boarding your ship, which” — he
bowed slightly at the muscularly congealed body
of the woman — “which she supplied me.
“I have explained all this because of the fact
that a mind will accept complete control only if
full understanding of — defeat — is present. I must
finally inform you, therefore, that you are to re-
main alive for the next few days, during which
time you will assist me in making personal con-
tact with your friends."
He made a gesture of dismissal: "Return to
your normal existence. I have still to co-ordinate
my two personalities completely, and that does
not require your presence.”
The Dreeghs went out blank-eyed, almost
briskly; and the two minds in one body were —
alone!
For Leigh, the Leigh of Earth, the first desper-
ate shock was past. The room was curiously dim,
as if he was staring out through eyes that were
no longer — his!
He thought, with a horrible effort at self-con-
trol: “I’ve got to fight. Some thing is trying to
possess my body. All the rest is lie."
A soothing, mind-pulsation stole into the shad-
owed chamber where his — self — was cornered :
“No lie, but wondrous truth. You have not seen
what the Dreeghs saw and felt, for you are inside
this body, and know not that it has come marvel-
ously alive, unlike anything that your petty
dreams on Earth could begin to conceive. You
must accept your high destiny, else the sight of
your own body will be a terrible thing to you. Be
calm, be braver than you’ve ever been, and pain
will turn to joy."
Calm came not. His mind quivered in its dark
corner, abnormally conscious df strange and un-
natural pressures that pushed in at it like winds
out of unearthly night. For a moment of terrible
fear, it funked that pressing night, then forced
back to sanity, and had another thought of its own,
a grimly cunning thought:
The devilish interloper was arguing. Could that
mean — his mind rocked with hope — that co-ordi-
nation was impossible without his yielding to
clever persuasion.
Never would he yield.
“Think,” whispered the alien mind, “think of
being one valuable facet of a mind with an I. Q.
twelve hundred, think of yourself as having played
a role: and now you are returning to normalcy, a
ASYLUM
33
normalcy of unlimited power. You have been an
actor completely absorbed in your role, but the
play is over; you are alone in your dressing room
removing the grease paint ; your mood of the play
is fading, fading, fading — ”
“Go to hell!” said William Leigh, loudly. “I’m
William Leigh, I. Q. one hundred and twelve, sat-
isfied to be just what I am. I don’t give a damn
whether you built me up from the component ele-
ments of your brain, or whether I was born nor-
mally. I can just see what you’re trying to do
with that hypnotic suggestion stuff, but it isn’t
working. I’m here, I’m myself, and I stay myself.
Go find yourself another body, if you’re so smart.”
Silence settled where his voice had been; and
the emptiness, the utter lack of sound brought a
sharp twinge of fear greater than that which he
had had before he spoke.
He was so intent on that inner struggle that he
was not aware of outer movement until —
With a start he grew aware that he was staring
out of a port window. Night spread there, the
living night of space.
A trick, he thought in an agony of fear; a trick
somehow designed to add to the corroding power
of hypnotism.
A trick! He tried to jerk back — and, terrify-
ingly, couldn’t. His body wouldn’t move. In-
stantly, then, he tried to speak, to crash through
that enveloping blanket of unholy silence. But no
sound came.
Not a muscle, not a finger stirred; not a single
nerve so much as trembled.
He was alone.
Cut off in his little corner of brain.
Lost.
Yes, lost, came a strangely pitying sibilation
of thought, lost to a cheap, sordid existence, lost
to a life whose end is visible from the hour of
birth, lost to a civilization that has already had to
be saved from itself a thousand times. Even you,
I think, can see that all this is lost to you forever —
Leigh thought starkly : The thing was trying by
a repetition of ideas, by showing evidence- of de-
feat, to lay the foundations of further defeat. It
was the oldest trick of simple hypnotism for sim-
ple people. And he couldn’t let it work —
You have, urged the mind inexorably, accepted
the fact that you were playing a role; and now
you have recognized our oneness, and are giving
up the role. The proof of this recognition on
your part is that you have yielded control of — our
— body.
— Our body, our body, OUR body —
The words re-echoed like some Gargantuan
sound through his brain, then merged swiftly into
that calm, other-mind pulsation:
— concentration. All intellect derives from the
capacity to concentrate; and, progressively, the
body itself shows life, reflects and focuses that
gathering, vaulting power.
— One more step remains: You must see —
Amazingly, then, he was staring into a mirror.
Where it had come from, he had no memory. It
was there in front of him, where, an instant be-
fore, had been a black porthole — and there was
an image in the mirror, shapeless at first to his
blurred vision.
Deliberately — he felt the enormous deliberate-
ness — the vision was cleared for him. He saw —
and then he didn’t.
His brain wouldn’t look. It twisted in a mad
desperation, like a body buried alive, and briefly,
horrendously conscious of its fate. Insanely, it
fought away from the blazing thing in the mirror.
So awful was the effort, so titanic the fear, that
it began to gibber mentally, its consciousness to
whirl dizzily, like a wheel spinning faster, faster —
The wheel shattered into ten thousand aching
fragments. Darkness came, blacker than Galactic
night. And there was —
Oneness!
THE END.
THE ANALYTICAL LABORATORY
The argument for place this month was, again, a
hotly contested one, as the point-scores show.
High point-scores mean a scattered vote; every
story on the list got at least one vote for first
place, and nearly every story on the list got a
vote of “Get the hook!” from somebody. The
analysis shows:
Place Story
1. Recruiting Station
2. Wings of Night
3. Goldfish Bowl
4. Day After Tomorrow
5. Runaround
The Editor.
Author Points
A. E. van Vogt 2.58
Lester del Rey 2.80
A. MacDonald 3.1
Roby Wentz 3.55
Isaac Asimov 3.81
34
FOREVER IS NOT SO LONG
Dy F. Anton Heeds
• Given that much-sought knowledge of the future, how many
would have courage to enjoy what life was to be theirs?
Illustrated by Orban
September, 1931.
The lights of Europe still burned.
The black hulk of Ploving Manor was broken by
the squares of brilliant, friendly light from its
many windows that gave the old country seat al-
most a cheerful aspect. From the stone terrace to
the south of Professor Ploving’s study long strings
of bobbing, soft-glowing lanterns stretched across
the close-cropped lawn to the dark outline of the
orchard. Beyond the orchard was the pounding
beat of the Channel.
On a platform under the lights young men
and young women danced to the strange new
throbbing music from the Americas. It was a
pulsing tom-tom beat, that music, that called for
a measure of gay abandon and a great deal of mus-
cular dexterity. But not quite the same sort of
abandon that their mothers and father had known.
For those lovely women at the terrace tables and
the gray-templed men at their sides had been the
fabulous, almost forgotten “lost generation” of an
almost forgotten “post-war" period. These young-
FOREVER IS NOT SO LONG
35
sters dancing under the English stars and pressing
hands in the orchard’s shadow were the fortunate
chosen ones who would build at last the brave new
world that had been their fathers’ dream.
Stephen Darville stood in the shadows of a great
clump of rhododendrons at the terrace edge watch-
ing the swirl of color on the lawn, his eyes search-
ing the laughing crowd for a sight of Jean. His
eyes found her and followed her across the lawn.
When she came near he called her name.
She hurried to him and took his hands in a
friendly tug.
“One dance together, Steve, before you go out
to the workshop.”
He shook his head.
“Just one,” she pleaded.
He pressed her hands, watching the way the stiff
sea breeze ruffled the gay silk kerchief at her
throat.
“There’s no time. Your father’s waiting for me
now.”
“Confound father, confound you and confound
science."
She laughed, but there had been a note of real
annoyance in her voice.
Darville looked at the soft curve of her throat
and the ligh-lighted sheen of her close-cropped
brown hair and beyond the moving figures on the
lawn. He suddenly wanted it all; the music and
the laughter and the gaiety and the feel of her in
his arms. But he wanted the other, too ; the thing
that awaited him out there in John Ploving’s work-
shop. The feel of metal cold in his hands, metal
that his own hands had helped to shape, and the
crazy swaying of the thin needles on the control
board before him. The age-old call of the twin,
conflicting fires in the blood of youth — Duty and
Romance.
She, too, was looking out toward the dancing
couples. He took her impulsively in his arms and
for a moment she clung to him.
“You can come back to me later on this evening
when you and father are through,” she whispered.
He wanted to crush her to him. wanted to whis-
per “If I do come back, if there is a ‘later on this
evening’ for me." But he only pressed her fingers
lightly.
“Save me a dance," he said, and hurried away
down the narrow path to Professor Ploving’s shop.
The things that Professor Ploving and his young
assistant did there in the shop were known only
to themselves; even those in the immediate fam-
ily had long ago learned to ask no questions and,
above all, never to “snoop.” Ploving was no more
immune than others to longings for fame, but years
of observing with his keen, analytical mind the
affairs of men both in and out of laboratories, had
taught him caution. A professor of the august
University of London, even a professor of inde-
AST— 3E
pendent wealth and impeccable family, could
hardly dare lay himself open to ridicule.
Had he been seeking to release atomic energy he
could have spoken glibly and weightily of corpus-
cular radiations and electrodes and atom-smash-
ing and even the news-reporters would have man-
aged to splash him upon the Sunday feature pages
as a brainy and adventurous fellow and a chap to
know. But let him once point to his much dis-
cussed mathematical equations on his theory of the
time-curve and suggest that he intended to utilize
his theory in a most practical way and the world,
he knew, would shout “time machine" and “crack-
pot.” For time machines, in 1931, were things to
be left to H. G. Wells and to the rising crop of
talented and imaginative English and American
fantasy writers. It was no doings for a man of
action and, above all, for a man of science.
Steve Darville closed the workshop door behind
him, muting the tom-tom rhythms of the music
from the terrace lawn.
The Ploving Tube stood with its small door, not
unlike the door of a Channel transport plane,
swinging open. The professor was beside it, wip-
ing his glasses on a linen kerchief, trying to hide
the nervousness that made the knotty blue veins
of his hands jerk spasmodically. He had thrown
open the small window at the south wall and
through it Steve caught a glimpse of the rooftops
of the newly-built Ploving Laboratories which lay
just under the hill, almost beside the Channel.
The laboratories that were to mean so much — or
nothing.
Intricate calculations, founded upon his own
theories of the “time-curve,” had been utilized by
Professor Ploving in creation of the Ploving Tube,
a cylinder most undramatic in appearance. But
the heart of the tube was the tiny Ploving Button,
a small incased mechanism no more than an inch
in thickness and a couple of inches in diameter. If
the tube were to be a success, it must depend upon
that one tiny button.
The button in the present tube was the result of
nearly ten years of intensive labor. If it failed,
another five to ten years would be needed to dupli-
cate the experiment. According to his figures,
Ploving felt the button capable of sending the tube
no more than ten years into the future and return.
The professor's plan, based upon that single as-
sumption, was unique.
Already the first wing of the new Ploving Labo-
ratories was complete. There, in the building that
would absorb nearly his entire fortune, the care-
fully assembled corps of young experimenters
would work night and day to perfect the Ploving
Button, although they could only guess at its ulti-
mate purpose. Within ten years, if things went
well, Ploving felt that a button should have been
developed capable of opening the entire time-
curve to the adventurous exploration of mankind.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
39-
“But I’m an old man,” the professor had snorted
in the confidence of the little workshop. “I've
no time to be dawdling about for a decade wait-
ing for something to happen.”
The Ploving plan was as simple as it was
astounding. He meant to use that single button
already created to go ten years into the future,
take the finished products of his laboratories — the
Ploving Button of ten years hence — return with
them to his own time and proudly present them
to their creators, the technicians who were so far
only fumbling with the problem of their perfec-
tion.
The technicians would “save” themselves ten
years of labor and the new sweeping highway into
the future and the past would be open to mankind
within the life of its discoverer.
Only cold, inexorable logic kept the old man
from insisting that he should be at the controls
when the Ploving Tube met its first test. But
logic was a god to whom the professor could al-
ways bow gracefully, if grudgingly, and logic cer-
tainly dictated the need for youthful co-ordina-
tion and strength during those fateful moments
that could advance the scope of man’s knowledge
by a decade.
Ploving had conveyed his decision to his
younger colleague only the day before in his char-
acteristic way.
“You’re elected, young man, by a unanimous vote
of two.”
Steve Darville, gazing past Professor Ploving to
the moonlit scene beyond the window, wondered
what changes ten years would have wrought.
There could be little alteration in the immediate
vicinity of the workshop, he knew, for the cautious
professor had taken no chances. His iron law had
decreed that nothing be erected or remodeled or
torn away in the vicinity of the workshop; the
provision, as an added precaution, being incorpo-
rated as the first item in his will.
The professor fumbled with his spectacles, man-
aged at last to place them upon his nose at an un-
accustomed angle, and coughed hesitatingly.
"Ready?” he asked.
“Ready,” Darville told him, and turned to the
tube.
It was a moment made for drama, but there was
no time for drama. He climbed into the narrow
tube, strapped himself into the awkward jump-seat
and carefully checked the dial readings on the
control panel before him. He nodded without
glancing out toward the professor, jerked his hand
in a quick salute and closed the tube’s door.
For a single moment he thought of the music
and laughter out on the lawn beyond, the laughter
and music he was missing tonight as he had been
missing them for so many nights on end. But in
the moment that he eased the control stick toward
him he knew that it had been a small price for this
moment. One hour more, less than an hour, and
there would be time again for music and laughter
and cool arms— or no longer need of them.
The thin needles vibrated to life, swayed crazily
across the faces of compact dials and as suddenly
hesitated and stopped. To the man within the
tube it seemed impossible that anything could have
happened in those seconds. It was ludicrous; a
moment more, he knew, and he must step out to
face the heartbreak in the eyes of the kindly old
man waiting just outside those thin metal walls.
To open that door required a kind of courage
Darville had never needed before and for seconds
he hesitated, prolonging the moment. What could
he say to the broken man at the other side of that
door, what would there be to say? His white-
knuckled fist twisted the latch, threw the door
open almost rudely.
The workshop was dark, save for soft moonlight
that flooded across a section of the floor from a
gaping hole in the roof and farther wall. Rubble
lay in heaps over the shop; broken plaster and
crumbled bricks and twisted, jagged fingers of
steel.
He had to pick his way among them as he sought
the old familiar path beyond that gaping splotch
of moonlight.
The path, too, was strewn with rubble and be-
yond the path a black, pitted hole yawned among
the broken, uprooted trees that had been the or-
chard — was it only a few minutes ago? Darville
rubbed a hand across his face, pulling roughly at
his cheeks with thumb and fingers. Instinctively
he wheeled toward the booming reverberation of
the Channel, toward the costly Ploving Labora-
tories that were his goal.
He felt suddenly sick and tired and old.
They, too, were gone; a single tall chimney, like
a blackened finger against the moon-swept sky, was
all that marked the site of the first great sprawling
wing that had been the crux of Ploving’s dream.
Ploving, Jean, where were they?
Blindly, almost running, Darville stumbled up
the path toward the south lawn, then stood weak
and trembling at the edge of the twisted, fire-
scorched orchard, gazing toward the bulk of Plov-
ing Manor across the lawn that had been, for him,
only minutes ago aglow with the soft light of
swinging lanterns.
The manor was in ruins; a black, blind, tooth-
less hag squatting in sullen anger against the roll-
ing meadow — windowless, fire-charred, forlorn.
As though his body moved to some other will than
his own, Darville walked slowly across that bar-
ren lawn toward the house.
He was almost within one of the gaping door-
ways, the doorway to old Ploving’s study, before
his keen eyes caught the faint glimmer of yellow
FOREVER IS NOT SO LONG
37
light from a single crack at the foot of the cellar
stairs. Light meant human beings who could tell
him the things he dreaded to hear yet must know.
Running down the steps he tried the door and,
finding it locked, beat upon it with his fists.
The crack of light suddenly expanded and
through the partially opened doorway Darville saw
the ugly snout of an automatic trained at his ribs.
His eyes followed the uniformed arm upward to
the insignia on the shoulder and to the stiff, tired
face of the young officer who eyed him question-
ingly. The automatic waved him inside and the
door was shut quickly behind him.
Within the smoke-filled room several men, all in
uniform, sat about a table. Together they turned
to stare at the newcomer. But it was the face of
the lanky major with the shrapnel scar jagged
across a cheek, that held Stephen Darville riveted.
The major’s lips were opened, as if to speak, and
his eyes dilated strangely.
Darville watched the man shake his head to clear
away the sudden paralysis ; saw his eyes Boften.
“Sorry," the major said, rising. "Terribly sorry.
But fact is, you look remarkably like a chap I
soldiered with in Flanders. Died the last night of
Dunkirk. Blown to bits. Shame, too. A brilliant
fellow. Scientist of promise, I believe, before the
war. You’re a good ten years or so younger of
course, but the resemblance is uncanny.”
The lanky major hesitated awkwardly.
“I say, you couldn’t be — But no, I remember
he was an only child.”
The tension had broken. A stubby fellow in
captain’s uniform turned to his superior officer.
“You don’t mean Darville, do you? Steve Dar-
ville?”
The major nodded.
“Funny," the captain said. “I never met Dar-
ville, you know. But last fortnight I bumped into
his wife. Ploving her name was. Plucky. Air
warden in the Dover area. Caught hell there.
Lost an arm eight months ago, but do you know,
she wouldn’t quit. Not her. Back on duty and one
of the best they’ve got.”
Steve Darville stumbled blindly to the door and
up the steps. Out on the path he did not turn to
look back at the shell of the manor, black and
gaunt and desolate against the sky.
His hands shook as he reset the dial readings
and pulled the control. He saw the needles sway
and dance. He was hardly aware of it when they
ceased swaying. Numbly he reached for the door
latch.
Inside the workshop was the bright glow of
bulbs. A stiff breeze blew in at the open window.
Instinctively, Darville glanced at his wrist watch.
He had been away, in that future that was not his
future, for less than three-quarters of an hour.
Professor Ploving’s eyes met his, read the frus-
tration there. The older man said nothing, but
put a hand out to the smooth surface of the tube
and buried his face in his arm.
Darville slipped quietly out of the workshop and
up the familiar path, moonlight-flooded between
the orchard trees. At the orchard's edge he
halted; stood listening to the gay abandon of the
music and the voices, searching that blob of light
and color for Jean. She was standing at the edge
of the lawn, a little apart from the others.
Stephen Darville went to her quickly, smothered
her cry of pleased surprise with a quick kiss and
led her to the jerry-built dance floor. Together
they caught the tom-tom rhythm, moved into the
circling stream of the dancers.
“Steve," she said, her voice eager, “do you have
to go back tonight?”
“Not tonight or ever," he said.
“Steve!”
“From now on, young one, I have time only for
you."
“Steve,” she cried. Her arm pressed him, her
hand squeezed his. “We’ll be the happiest people
in the world, Steve. The happiest, gayest, most in
love two people in the world. And we'll go on
being that, Steve — forever.”
Two trumpets were taking a hot chorus, un-
muted, their notes sharp and high and quivering.
“Forever," he said.
THE END.
NO FINER DRINK IN TOWN OR COUNTRY, ^
,(h Ttie foC&k, — ffiate Tfygi-Cofal
38
FOUNDATION
By Isaac Asimov
• It's a characteristic of a decadent civilization that their
"scientists" consider all knowledge already known— that
they spend their time making cyclopedic gatherings of that
knowledge. But that Foundation was something rather tricky —
Illustrated by M. Ulp
Hari Seldon was old and tired. His voice,
roared out though it was, by the amplifying sys-
tem. was old and tired as well.
There were few in that small assemblage that
did not realize that Hari Seldon would be dead
before the next spring. And they listened in re-
spectful silence to the last official words of the
Galaxy’s greatest mind.
“This is the last meeting," that tired voice said,
“of the group I had called together over twenty
years ago.” Seldon’s eyes swept the seated scien-
tists. He was alone on the platform, alone in the
wheel chair to which a stroke had confined him
two years before, and on his lap was the last vol-
ume — the fifty-second — of the minutes of previ-
ous meetings. It was opened to the last page.
He continued: “The group I called together
represented the best the Galactic Empire could
offer of its philosophers, its psychologists, its his-
torians, and its physical scientists. And in the
twenty years since, we have considered the great-
est problem ever to confront any group of fifty
men— perhaps the greatest ever to confront any
number of men.
“We have not always agreed on methods or on
procedure. We have spent months and, doubtless,
years on futile debates over relatively minor is-
sues. On more than one occasion, sizable sections
of our group threatened to break away altogether.
"And yet” — his old face lit in a gentle smile —
“we solved the problem. Many of the original
members died and were replaced by others.
Schemes were abandoned; plans voted down; pro-
cedures proven faulty.
'v. “Yet we solved the problem; and not one mem-
ber, while yet alive, left our group. I am glad of
that.”
He paused, and allowed the subdued applause
to die.
"We have done; and our work is over. The
Galactic Empire is falling, but its culture shall
not die, and provision has been made for a new
and greater culture to develop therefrom. The
two Scientific Refuges wc planned have been
established: one at each end of the Galaxy, at
Terminus and at Star’s End. They are in opera-
tion and already moving along the inevitable lines
we have drawn for them.
“For us is left only one last item, and that fifty
years in the future. That item, already worked
out in detail, will be the instigation of revolts in
the key sectors of Anacreon and Loris. It will
set that final machinery in motion to work itself
out in the millennium that follows.”
Hari Seldon’s tired head dropped. "Gentlemen,
the last meeting of our group is hereby adjourned.
We began in secret; we have worked throughout
in secret; and now end in secret — to wait for our
reward a thousand years hence with the estab-
lishment of the Second Galactic Empire.”
The last volume of minutes closed, and Hari
Seldon’s thin hand fell away from it.
“I am finished!” he whispered.
Lewis Pirenne was busily engaged at his desk
in the one well-lit corner of the room. Work had
to be co-ordinated. Effort had to be organized.
Threads had to be woven into a pattern.
Fifty years now; fifty years to establish them-
selves and set up Encyclopedia Foundation Num-
ber One into a smoothly working unit. Fifty
years to gather the raw material. Fifty years to
prepare.
It had been done. Five more years would see
the publication of the first volume of the most
monumental work the Galaxy had ever conceived.
And then at ten-year intervals — regularly — like
clockwork — volume after volume after volume.
And with them there would be supplements; spe-
cial articles on events of current interest, until —
39
Pirenne stirred uneasily, as the muted buzzer
upon his desk muttered peevishly. He had almost
forgotten the appointment. He shoved the door
release and out of an abstracted corner of one eye
saw the door open and the broad figure of Salvor
Hardin enter. Pirenne did not look up.
Hardin smiled to himself. He was in a hurry,
but he knew better than to take offense at Pi-
renne’s cavalier treatment of anything or anyone
that disturbed him at his work. He buried him-
self in the chair on the other side of the desk and
waited.
Pirenne’s stylus made the faintest scraping
sound as it raced across paper. Otherwise, neither
motion nor sound. And then Hardin withdrew a
two-credit coin from his vest pocket. He flipped
it and its stainless-steel surface caught glitters of
light as it tumbled through the air. He caught it
and flipped it again, watching the flashing reflec-
tions lazily. Stainless steel made good medium
of exchange on a planet where all metal had to
be imported.
Pirenne looked up and blinked. “Stop that!"
he said querulously.
“Eh?"
"That infernal coin tossing. Stop it.”
"Oh.” Hardin pocketed the metal disk. "Tell
me when you’re ready, will you? I promised to
be back at the City Council meeting before the
new aqueduct project is put to a vote."
Pirenne sighed and shoved himself away from
the desk. “I’m ready. But I hope you aren’t
going to bother me with city affairs. Take care
of that yourself, please. The Encyclopedia takes
up all my time."
“Have you heard the news?” questioned Hardin,
phlegmatically.
“What news?”
“The news that the Terminus City ultrawave
set received two hours ago. The Royal Governor
of the Prefect of Anacreon has assumed the title
of king.”
“Well? What of it?”
“It means,” responded Hardin, “that we’re cut
40
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
off from the inner regions of the Empire. Do you
realize that Anacreon stands square across what
was our last remaining trade route to Santanni
and to Trantor and to Vega itself? Where is our
metal to come from? We haven’t managed to get
a steel or aluminum shipment through in six
months and now we won’t be able to get any at
all, except by grace of the King of Anacreon.”
Pirenne tch-tched impatiently. “Get them
through him, then.”
“But can we? Listen, Pirenne, according to
the charter which established this Foundation, the
Board of Trustees of the Encyclopedia Commit-
tee has been given full administrative powers. I,
as Mayor of Terminus City, have just enough
power to blow my own nose and perhaps to sneeze
if you countersign an order giving me permission.
It’s up to you and your Board then. I’m asking
you in the name of the City, whose prosperity
depends upon uninterrupted commerce with the
Galaxy, to call an emergency meeting — ”
“Stop! A campaign speech is out of order.
Now, Hardin, the Board of Trustees has not
barred the establishment of a municipal govern-
ment on Terminus. We understand one to be nec-
essary because of the increase in population since
the Foundation was established fifty years ago,
and because of the increasing number of people
involved in non-Encyclopedia affairs. But that
does not mean that the first and only aim of the
Foundation is no longer to publish the definitive
Encyclopedia of all human knowledge. We are
a State-supported, scientific institution, Hardin.
We cannot — must not — will not interfere in local
politics.”
“Local politics! By the Emperor’s left big toe,
Pirenne, this is a matter of life and death. The
planet, Terminus, by itself cannot support a
mechanized civilization. It lacks metals. You
know that. It hasn’t a trace of iron, copper, or
aluminum in the surface rocks, and precious lit-
tle of anything else. What do you think will hap-
pen to the Encyclopedia if this whatchamacallum
King of Anacreon clamps down on us?"
“On us? Are you forgetting that we are under
the direct control of the Emperor himself? We
are not part of the Prefect of Anacreon or of any
other prefect. Memorize that! We are part of
the Emperor’s personal domain, and no one
touches us. The Empire can protect its own."
“Then why didn’t it prevent the Royal Gov-
ernor of Anacreon from kicking over the traces?
And only Anacreon? At least twenty of the out-
ermost prefects of the Galaxy, the entire Periph-
ery as a matter of fact, have begun steering things
their own way. I tell you I feel darned uncertain
of the Empire and its ability to protect us.”
“Hokum! Royal Governors, Kings — what’s the
difference? The Empire is always shot through
with a certain amount of politics and with differ-
ent men pulling this way and that. Governors
have rebelled, and, for that matter, Emperors have
been deposed or assassinated before this. But
what has that to do with the Empire itself? For-
get it, Hardin. It’s none of our business. We
are first of all and last of all — scientists. And
our concern is the Encyclopedia. Oh, yes, I'd
almost forgotten. Hardin!”
"Well?”
“Do something about that paper of yours!” Pi-
renne’s voice was angry.
"The Terminus City Journal? It isn't mine;
it's privately owned. What's it been doing?”
"For weeks now it has been recommending that
the fiftieth anniversary of the establishment of
the Foundation be made the occasion for public
holidays and quite inappropriate celebrations.”
"And why not? The radium clock will open
the First Vault in three months. I would call that
a big occasion, wouldn’t you?”
“Not for silly pageantry, Hardin. The First
Vault and its opening concern the Board of
Trustees alone. Anything of importance will be
communicated to the people. That is final and
please make it plain to the Journal.”
“I’m sorry, Pirenne, but the City Charter guar-
antees a certain minor matter known as freedom
of the press.”
“It may. But the Board of Trustees does not.
I am the Emperor’s representative on Terminus,
Hardin, and have full powers in this respect.”
Hardin’s expression became that of a man count-
ing to ten, mentally. He said grimly: "In con-
nection with your status as Emperor's representa-
tive, then, I have a final piece of news to give
you."
“About Anacreon?” Pirenne’s lips tightened.
He felt annoyed.
“Yes. A special envoy will be sent to us from
Anacreon. In two weeks.”
“An envoy? Here? From Anacreon?” Pirenne
chewed that. "What for?”
Hardin stood up, and shoved his chair back up
against the desk. “I give you one guess.”
And he left — quite unceremoniously. -
Anselm haut Rodric — “haut" itself signifying
noble blood — Sub-prefect of Pluema and Envoy
Extraordinary of his Highness of Anacreon — plus
half a dozen other titles — was met by Salvor Har-
din at the spaceport with all the imposing titual
of a state occasion.
With a tight smile and a low bow, the sub-
prefect had flipped his blaster from its holster
and presented it to Hardin butt first. Hardin re-
turned the compliment with a blaster specifically
borrowed for the occasion. Friendship and good
will were thus established, and if Hardin noted
FOUNDATION
41
the barest bulge at Haut Rodric’s shoulder, he
prudently said nothing.
The ground car that received them then — pre-
ceded, flanked, and followed by the suitable cloud
of minor functionaries — proceeded in a slow, cere-
monious manner to Cyclopedia Square, cheered
on its way by a properly enthusiastic crowd.
Sub-prefect Anselm received the cheers with
the complaisant indifference of a soldier and a
nobleman.
He said to Hardin, “And this city is all your
world?”
Hardin raised his voice to be heard above the
clamor, “We are a young world, your eminence.
In our short history we have had but few mem-
bers of the higher nobility visiting our poor
planet. Hence, our enthusiasm."
It is certain that “higher nobility” did not rec-
ognize irony when he heard it.
He said thoughtfully: "Founded fifty years
ago. Hm-m-m! You have a great deal of unex-
ploited land here, mayor. You have never consid-
ered dividing it into estates?”
“There is no necessity as yet. We’re extremely
centralized; we have to be, because of the Ency-
clopedia. Some day, perhaps, when our popula-
tion has grown — "
“A strange world! You have no peasantry?"
Hardin reflected that it didn’t require a great
deal of acumen to tell that his eminence was in-
dulging in a bit of fairly clumsy pumping. He
replied casually, “No — nor nobility.”
Haut Rodric’s eyebrows lifted. “And your
leader — the man I am to meet?”
“You mean Dr. Pirenne? Yes! He is the Chair-
man of the Board of Trustees — and a personal rep-
resentative of the Emperor."
“ Doctor ? No other title? A scholar ? And he
rates above the civil authority?”
“Why, certainly," replied Hardin, amiably.
"We’re all scholars more or less. After all, we’re
not so much a world as a scientific foundation —
under the direct control of the Emperor."
There was a faint emphasis upon the last phrase
that seemed to disconcert the sub-prefect. He
remained thoughtfully silent during the rest of
the slow way to Cyclopedia Square.
If Hardin found himself bored by the after-
noon and evening that followed, he had at least
the satisfaction of realizing that Pirenne and
Haut Rodric — having met with loud and mutual
protestations of esteem and regard — were detest-
ing each other’s company a good deal more.
Haut Rodric had attended with glazed eye to
Pirenne’s lecture during the “inspection tour" of
the Encyclopedia Building. With polite and va-
cant smile, he had listened to the latter’s rapid
patter as they passed through the vast storehouses
of reference films and the numerous projection
rooms.
It was only after he had gone down level by
level into and through the composing depart-
ments, editing departments, publishing depart-
ments, and filming departments that he made his
first comprehensive statement.
“This is all very interesting," he said, “but it
seems a strange occupation for grown men. What
good is it?”
It was a remark, Hardin noted, for which Pi-
renne found no answer, though the expression of
his face was most eloquent.
The dinner that evening was much the mirror
image of the events of that afternoon, for Haut
Rodric monopolized the conversation by describ-
ing — in minute technical detail and with incredi-
ble zest — his own exploits as battalion head dur-
ing the recent war between Anacreon and the
neighboring newly proclaimed Kingdom of
Smyrno.
The details of the sub-prefect’s account were
not completed until dinner was over and one by
one the minor officials had drifted away. The
last bit of triumphant description of mangled
spaceships came when he had accompanied Pi-
renne and Hardin onto the balcony and relaxed
in the warm air of the summer evening.
“And now," he said, with a heavy joviality, “to
serious matters.”
“By all means," murmured Hardin, lighting a
long cigar of Vegan tobacco — not many left, he
reflected — and teetering his chair back on two legs.
The Galaxy was high in the sky and its misty
lens shape stretched lazily from horizon to hori-
zon. The few stars here at the very edge of the
universe were insignificant twinkles in compari-
son.
“Of course," said the sub-prefect, "all the for-
mal discussions — the paper signing and such dull
technicalities, that is — will take place before the —
What is it you call your Council?”
“The Board of Trustees," replied Pirenne,
coldly.
“Queer name! Anyway, that’s for tomorrow.
We might as well clear away some of the under-
brush, man to man, right now, though. Hey?"
“And this means — ’’ prodded Hardin.
“Just this. There’s been a certain change in the
situation out here in the Periphery and the status
of your planet has become a trifle uncertain. It
would be very convenient if we succeeded in com-
ing to an understanding as to how the matter
stands. By the way, mayor, have you another one
of those cigars?”
Hardin started and produced one reluctantly.
Anselm haut Rodric sniffed at it and emitted a
clucking sound of pleasure. “Vegan tobacco!
Where did you get it?”
“We received some last shipment. There’s
42
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
hardly any left. Space knows when we’ll get more
— if ever.”
Pirenne scowled. He didn’t smoke — and, for
that matter, detested the odor. "Let me under-
stand this, your eminence. Your mission is merely
one of clarification?”
Haut Rodric nodded through the smoke of his
first lusty puffs.
“In that case, it is soon over. The situation with
respect to Encyclopedia Foundation Number One
is what it always has been.”
“Ah! And what is it that it always has been?”
“Just this: A State-supported scientific insti-
tution and part of the personal domain of his
august majesty, the Emperor."
The sub-prefect seemed unimpressed. He blew
smoke rings. "That’s a nice theory, Dr. Pirenne.
I imagine you’ve got charters with the Imperial
Seal upon it — but what’s the actual situation?
How do you stand with respect to Smyrno? You’re
not fifty parsecs from Smyrno’s capital, you know.
And what about Konom and Daribow?”
Pirenne said : “We have nothing to do with
any prefect. As part of the Emperor’s — ”
“They’re not prefects,” reminded Haut Rodric;
“they're kingdoms now.”
"Kingdoms then. We have nothing to do with
them. As a scientific institution — ”
“Science be dashed!” swore the other, via a
bouncing soldierly oath that ionized the atmos-
phere. “What the devil has that got to do with
the fact that we’re liable to see Terminus taken
over by Smyrno at any time?”
“And the Emperor? He would just sit by?"
Haut Rodric calmed down and said: “Well,
now, Dr. Pirenne, you respect the Emperor’s
property and so does Anacreon, but Smyrno might
not. Remember, we’ve just signed a treaty with
the Emperor — I’ll present a copy to that Board
of yours tomorrow — which places upon us the re-
sponsibility of maintaining order within the bor-
ders of the old Prefect of Anacreon on behalf of
the Emperor. Our duty is clear, then, isn’t it?”
“Certainly. But Terminus is not part of the
Prefect of Anacreon.”
“And Smyrno—”
“Nor is it part of the Prefect of Smyrno. It’s
not part of any prefect."
“Does Smyrno know that?”
"I don’t care what it knows."
"We do. We’ve just finished a war with her
and she still holds two stellar systems that are
ours. Terminus occupies an extremely strategic
spot, between the two nations."
Hardin felt weary. He broke in: “What is
your proposition, your eminence?"
The sub-prefect seemed quite ready to stop
fencing in favor of more direct statements. He
said briskly: “It seems perfectly obvious that,
since Terminus cannot defend itself, Anacreon
must take over the job for its own sake. You
understand we have no desire to interfere with
internal administration — ”
“Uh-huh,” grunted Hardin, dryly.
“ — but we believe that it would be best for all
concerned to have Anacreon establish a military
base upon the planet.”
“And that is all you wguld want — a military
base in some of the vast unoccupied territory —
and let it go at that.”
"Well, of course, there would be the matter of
supporting the protecting forces.”
Hardin's chair came down on all four, and his
elbows went forward on his knees. "Now we’re
getting to the nub. Let’s put it into language.
Terminus is to be a protectorate and to pay trib-
ute.”
“Not tribute. Taxes. We’re protecting you.
You pay for it.”
Pirenne banged his hand on the chair with sud-
den violence. "Let me speak, Hardin. Your emi-
nence, I don’t care a rusty half-credit coin for
Anacreon, Smyrno, or all your local politics and
petty wars. I tell you this is a State-supported
tax-free institution.”
"State-supported? But we are the State, Dr.
Pirenne, and we’re not supporting.”
Pirenne rose angrily. “Your eminence, I am
the direct representative of — ’’
“ — his august majesty, the Emperor," chorused
Anselm haut Rodric sourly, "and I am the direct
representative of the King of Anacreon. Anac-
reon is a lot nearer, Dr. Pirenne."
"Let’s get back to business,” urged Hardin.
"How would you take these so-called taxes, your
eminence? Would you take them in kind: wheat,
potatoes, vegetables, cattle?”
The sub-prefect stared. "What the devil?
What do we need with those? We’ve got hefty
surpluses. Gold, of course. Chromium or vana-
dium would be even better, incidentally, if you
have it in quantity."
Hardin laughed. “Quantity! We haven’t even
got iron in quantity. Gold! Here, take a look at
our currency.” He tossed a coin to the envoy.
Haut Rodric bounced it and stared. “What is
it? Steel?”
“That’s right."
"I don’t understand."
"Terminus is a planet practically without metals.
We import it all. Consequently, we have no gold,
and nothing to pay unless you want a few thou-
sand bushels of potatoes.”
"Well — manufactured goods."
“Without metal? What do we make our ma-
chines out of?”
There was a pause and Pirenne tried again.
“This whole discussion is wide of the point. Ter-
minus is not a planet, but a scientific foundation
FOUNDATION
43
preparing a great encyclopedia. Space, man, have
you no respect for science?"
“Encyclopedias don't win wars.” Haut Rod-
ric's brows furrowed. “A completely unproduc-
tive world, then — and practically unoccupied at
that. Well, you might pay with land."
“What do you mean?” asked Pirenne.
“This world is just about empty and the unoc-
cupied land is probably fertile. There are many
of the nobility on Anacreon that would like an
addition to their estates.”
“You can’t propose any such — "
“There’s no necessity of looking so alarmed.
Dr. Pirenne. There’s plenty for all of us. If it
comes to what it comes, and you co-operate, we
could probably arrange it so that you lose noth-
ing. Titles can be conferred and estates granted.
You understand me. I think.”
Pirenne sneered, “Thanks!"
And then Hardin said ingenuously: "Could
Anacreon supply us with adequate quantities of
praseodymium for our atomic-power plant? We’ve
only a few years’ supply left."
There was a gasp from Pirenne and then a dead
silence for minutes. When Haut Rodric spoke it
was in a voice quite different from what it had
been till then:
“You have atomic power?"
“Certainly. What's unusual in that? I imagine
atomic power is fifty thousand years old now.
Why shouldn’t we have it? Except that it’s a lit-
tle difficult to get praseodymium."
"Yes . . . yes.” The envoy paused and added
uncomfortably: "Well, gentlemen, we’ll pursue
the subject tomorrow. You’ll excuse me — ”
Pirenne looked after him and gritted through
his teeth: “That insufferable, dull-witted donkey!
That—”
Hardin broke in: "Not at all. He's merely the
product of his environment. He doesn't under-
stand much except that ‘I got a gun and you
ain’t.’ ”
Pirenne whirled on him in exasperation.
"What in space did you mean by the talk about
military bases and tribute? Are you crazy?"
“No. I merely gave him rope and let him talk.
You’ll notice that he managed to stumble out with
Anacreon’s real intentions — that is, the parceling
up of Terminus into landed estates. Of course, I
don’t intend to let that happen."
"You don’t intend. You don’t. And who are
you? And may I ask what you meant by blowing
off your mouth about our atomic-power plant?
Why, it’s just the thing that would make us a
military target."
“Yes," grinned Hardin. “A military target to
stay away from. Isn’t it obvious why I brought
the subject up? It happened to confirm a very
strong suspicion I had had."
“And that was what?"
"That Anacreon no longer has an atomic-power
economy — and that, therefore, the rest of the
Periphery no longer has one as well. Interesting,
wouldn’t you say?’’
“Bah!” Pirenne left in fiendish humor, and
Hardin smiled gently.
He threw his cigar away and looked up at the
outstretched Galaxy. “Back to oil and coal, are
they?" he murmured — and what the rest of his
thoughts were he kept to himself.
When Hardin denied owning the Journal, he
was perhaps technically correct, but no more.
Hardin had been the leading spirit in the drive
to incorporate Terminus into an autonomous mu-
nicipality — he had been elected its first mayor —
so it was not surprising that, though not a single
share of Journal stock was in his name, some sixty
percent was controlled by him in more devious
fashions.
There were way 6.
Consequently, when Hardin began suggesting
to Pirenne that he be allowed to attend meetings
of the Board of Trustees, it was not quite coinci-
dence that the Journal began a similar campaign.
And the first mass meeting in the history of the
Foundation was held, demanding representation
of the City in the "national" government.
And, eventually, Pirenne capitulated with ill
grace.
Hardin, as he sat at the foot of the table, specu-
lated idly as to just what it was that made physi-
cal scientists such poor administrators. It might
be merely that they were too used to inflexible
fact and far too unused to pliable people.
In any case, there was Tomaz Sutt and Jord
Fara on his left; Lundin Crast and Yate Fulham
on his right; with Pirenne, himself, presiding.
He knew them all, of course, but they seemed to
have put on an extra-special bit of pomposity for
the occasion.
Hardin half dozed through the initial formali-
ties and then perked up when Pirenne sipped at
the glass of water before him by way of prepara-
tion and said:
"I find it very gratifying to be able to inform
the Board that, since our last meeting, I have re-
ceived word that Lord Dorwin, Chancellor of the
Empire, will arrive at Terminus in two weeks. It
may be taken for granted that our relations with
Anacreon will be smoothed out to our complete
satisfaction as soon as the Emperor is informed
of the situation.”
He smiled and addressed Hardin across the
length of the table. “Information to this effect
has been given the Journal."
Hardin snickered below his breath. It seemed
evident that Pirenne’s desire to strut this informa-
tion before him had been one reason for his ad-
mission into the sacrosanctum.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
He said evenly: “Leaving vague expressions
out of account, what do you expect Lord Dorwin
to do?”
Tomaz Sutt replied. He had a bad habit of ad-
dressing one in the third person when in his more
stately moods.
“It is quite evident,” he observed, “that Mayor
Hardin is a professional cynic. He can scarcely
fail to realize that the Emperor would be most
unlikely to allow his personal rights to be in-
fringed.”
“Why? What would he do in case they were?"
There was an annoyed stir. Pirenne said, “You
are out of order," and, as an afterthought, “and
are making what are near-treasonable statements,
besides."
“Am I to consider myself answered?”
“Yes! If you have nothing further to say — ”
“Don’t jump to conclusions. I'd like to ask a
question. Besides this stroke of diplomacy —
which may or may not prove to mean anything —
has anything concrete been done to meet the
Anacreonic menace?”
Yate Fulham drew one hand along his ferocious
red mustache. “You see a menace there, do you?”
"Don't you?”
"Scarcely" — this with indulgence. “The Em-
peror — ”
"Great space!” Hardin felt annoyed. “What is
this? Every once in a while someone mentions
‘Emperor’ or 'Empire' as if it were a magic word.
The Emperor is fifty thousand parsecs away, and
I doubt whether he gives a damn about us. And
if he does, what can he do? What there was of
the imperial navy in these regions is in the hands
of the four kingdoms now and Anacreon has its
share. Listen, we have to fight with guns, not
with words.
"Now, get this. We’ve had two months of grace
so far, mainly because we've given Anacreon the
idea that we’ve got atomic weapons. Well, we
all know that that’s a little white lie. We’ve got
atomic power, but only for commercial uses, and
darn little at that. They're going to find that out
soon, and if you think they’re going to enjoy
being jollied along, you’re mistaken.”
“My dear sir — ”
“Hold on; I'm not finished.” Hardin was warm-
ing up. He liked this. "It’s all very well to drag
chancellors into this, but it would be much nicer
to drag a few great big siege guns fitted for beau-
tiful atomic bombs into it. We’ve lost two
months, gentlemen, and we may not have another
two months to lose. What do you propose to do?”
Said Lundin Crast, his long nose wrinkling an-
grily: “If you’re proposing the militarization of
the Foundation, I won’t hear a word of it. It
would mark our open entrance into the field of
politics. We, Mr. Mayor, are a scientific founda-
tion and nothing else.”
Added Sutt: “He does not realize, moreover,
that building armaments would mean withdraw-
ing men — valuable men — from the Encyclopedia.
That cannot be done, come what may."
“Very true,” agreed Pirenne. "The Encyclo-
pedia first — always."
Hardin groaned in spirit. The Board seemed
to suffer violently from Encyclopedia on the
brain.
He said icily: “Has it ever occurred to the
Board that it is barely possible that Terminus
may have interests other than the Encyclopedia?”
Pirenne replied: “I do not conceive, Hardin,
that the Foundation can have any interest other
than the Encyclopedia."
“I didn’t say the Foundation; I said Terminus.
I’m afraid you don’t understand the situation.
There’s a good million of us here on Terminus,
and not more than a hundred and fifty thousand
are working directly on the Encyclopedia. To
the rest of us, this is home. We were born here.
We're living here. Compared with our farms and
our homes and our factories, the Encyclopedia
means little to us. We want them protected — ’’
He was shouted down.
“The Encyclopedia first," ground out Crast.
"We have a mission to fulfill."
"Mission, hell," shouted Hardin. "That might
have been true fifty years ago. But this is a new
generation.”
"That has nothing to do with it,” replied Pi-
renne. “We are scientists.”
And Hardin leaped through the opening. "Are
you, though? That’s a nice hallucination, isn't
it? Your bunch here is a perfect example of what’s
been wrong with the entire Galaxy for thousands
of years. What kind of science is it to be stuck
out here for centuries classifying the work of
scientists of the last millennium? Have you ever
thought of working onward, extending their
knowledge and improving upon it? No! You’re
quite happy to stagnate. The whole Galaxy is,
and has been for space knows how long. That’s
why the Periphery is revolting; that’s why com-
munications are breaking down; that’s why petty
wars are becoming eternal; that’s why whole sys-
tems are losing atomic power and going back to
barbarous techniques of chemical power.
"If you ask me,” he cried, “the Galaxy is going
to pot!"
He paused and dropped into his chair to catch
his breath, paying no attention to the two or three
that were attempting simultaneously to answer
him.
Crast got the floor. “I don’t know what you’re
trying to gain by your hysterical statements, Mr.
Mayor. Certainly, you are adding nothing con-
structive to the discussion. I move, Mr. Chair-
FOUNDATION
45
man, that the last speaker’s remarks be placed out
of order and the discussion be resumed from the
point where it was interrupted.”
Jord Fara bestirred himself for the first time.
Up to this point Fara had taken no part in the
argument even at its hottest. But now his pon-
derous voice, every bit as ponderous as his three-
hundred-pound body, burst its bass way out.
“Haven’t we forgotten something, gentlemen?”
“What?” asked Pirenne, peevishly.
“That in a month we celebrate our fiftieth anni-
versary.” Fara had a trick of uttering the most
obvious platitudes with great profundity.
“What of it?”
“And on that anniversary," continued Fara,
placidly, “Hari Seldon's First Vault will open.
Have you ever considered what might be in the
First Vault?”
“I don’t know. Routine matters. A stock speech
of congratulations, perhaps. I don’t think any
significance need be placed on the First Vault —
though the Journal " — and he glared at Hardin,
who grinned back — “did try to make an issue of it.
I put a stop to that.”
“Ah,” said Fara, “but perhaps you are wrong.
Doesn’t it strike you" — he paused and put a fin-
ger to his round little nose — “that the Vault is
opening at a very convenient time?"
“Very inconvenient time, you mean," muttered
Fulham. “We've got some other things to worry
about."
“Other things more important than a message
from Hari Seldon? I think not." Fara was grow-
ing more pontifical than ever, and Hardin eyed
him thoughtfully. What was he getting at?
“In fact,” said Fara, happily, “you all seem to
forget that Seldon was the greatest psychologist
of our time and that he was the founder of our
Foundation. It seems reasonable to assume that
he used his science to determine the probable
course of the history of the immediate future. If
he did, as seems likely, I repeat, he would cer-
tainly have managed to find a way to warn us of
danger and, perhaps, to point out a solution. The
Encyclopedia was very dear to his heart, you
know.”
An aura of puzzled doubt prevailed. Pirenne
hemmed. “Well, now, I don’t know. Psychology
is a great science, but — there are no psychologists
among us at the moment, I believe. It seems to
me we’re on uncertain ground.”
Fara turned to Hardin. “Didn’t you study psy-
chology under Alurin?"
Hardin answered, half in reverie: “Yes. I
never completed my studies, though. I got tired
of theory. I wanted to be a psychological engi-
neer, but we lacked the facilities, so I did the next
best thing — I went into politics. It’s practically
the same thing."
“Well, what do you think of the First Vault?"
And Hardin replied cautiously, “I don’t know."
He did not say a word for the remainder of the
meeting — even though it got back to the sub-
ject of the Chancellor of the Empire.
In fact, he didn’t even listen. He’d been put on
a new track and things were falling into place —
just a little. Little angles were fitting together
— one or two.
And psychology was the key. He was sure of
that.
He was trying desperately to remember the psy-
chological theory he had once learned — and from
it he got one thing right at the start. )
A great psychologist such as Seldon could un-
ravel human emotions and human reactions suffi-
ciently to be able to predict broadly the histori-
cal sweep of the future.
And that meant — hm-m-m!
Lord Dorwin took snuff. He also had long hair,
curled intricately and, quite obviously, artificially;
to which were added a pair of fluffy, blond side-
burns, which he fondled affectionately. Then,
too, he spoke in overprecise statements and left
out all the r’s.
At the moment, Hardin had no time to think
of more of the reasons for the instant detestation
in which he had held the noble chancellor. Oh,
yes, the elegant gestures of one hand with which
he accompanied his remarks and the studied con-
descension with which he accompanied even a
simple affirmative.
But, at any rate, the problem now was to locate
him. He had disappeared with Pirenne half an
hour before — passed clean out of sight, blast him.
Hardin was quite sure that his own absence
during the preliminary discussions would quite
suit Pirenne.
But Pirenne had been seen in this wing and on
this floor. It was simply a matter of trying every
door. Halfway down, he said, “Ah !” and stepped
into the darkened room. The profile of Lord Dor-
win’s intricate hair-do was unmistakable against
the lighted screen.
Lord Dorwin looked up and said: “Ah, Hahdin.
You ah looking foah us, no doubt?” He held out
his snuffbox — overadorned and poor workmanship
at that, noted Hardin — and was politely refused,
whereat he helped himself to a pinch and smiled
graciously.
Pirenne scowled and Hardin met that with an
expression of blank indifference.
The only sound to break the short silence that
followed was the clicking of the lid of Lord Dor-
win’s snuffbox. And then he put it away and said :
“A gweat achievement, this Encyclopedia of
yoahs, Hahdin. A feat, indeed, to rank with the
most majestic accomplishments of all time.”
“Most of us think so, milord. It’s an accom-
46
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
plishment not quite accomplished as yet, how-
ever.”
“Fwom the little I have seen of the efficiency
of yoah Foundation, I have no feahs on that
scoah.” And he nodded to Pirenne, who responded
with a delighted bow.
Quite a love feast, thought Hardin. “I wasn’t
complaining about the lack of efficiency, milord,
as much as of the definite excess of efficiency on
the part of the Anacreonians — though in another
and more destructive direction.”
“Ah, yes, Anacweon.” A negligent wave of the
hand. “I have just come from theah. Most bah-
bawous planet. It is thowoughly inconceivable
that human beings could live heah in the Pewiph-
ewy. The lack of the most elementawy wequiah-
ments of a cultuahed gentleman; the absence of
the most fundamental necessities foah comfoht
and convenience — the uttah disuetude into which
they — ”
Hardin interrupted dryly: “The Anacreonians,
unfortunately, have all the elementary require-
ments for warfare and all the fundamental neces-
sities for destruction.”
“Quite, quite.” Lord Dorwin seemed annoyed,
perhaps at being stopped midway in his sentence.
“But we ahn’t to discuss business now, y’know.
Weally, I’m othahwise concuhned. Doctah Pi-
wenne, ahn’t you going to show me the second
volume? Do, please.”
The lights clicked out and for the next half-
hour Hardin might as well have been on Anac-
reon for all the attention they paid him. The
book upon the screen made little sense to him, nor
did he trouble to make the attempt to follow, but
Lord Dorwin became quite humanly excited at
times. Hardin noticed that during these moments
of excitement the chancellor pronounced his r’s.
When the lights went on again, Lord Dorwin
said: "Mahvelous. Twuly mahvelous. You ah
not, by chance, intewested in ahchasology, ah you,
Hahdin?”
“Eh?” Hardin shook himself out of an ab-
stracted reverie. “No, milord, can't say I am.
I'm a psychologist by original intention and a
politician by final decision.”
“Ah! No doubt intewesting studies. I, my-
FOUNDATION
47
self, y’know" — he helped himself to a giant pinch '
of snuff — “dabble in ahchaeology.”
“Indeed?"
“His lordship,” interrupted Pirenne, “is most
thoroughly acquainted with the field.”
“Well, p’haps I am, p'haps I am,” said his lord-
ship complacently. “I have done an awful amount
of wuhk in the science. Extwemely well-read, in
fact. I've gone thwough all of Jawdun, Obijasi,
Kwomwill . . . oh, all of them, y'know.”
“I’ve heard of them, of course,” said Hardin,
"but I’ve never read them."
“You should some day, my deah fellow. It
would amply repay you. Why, I cutainly con-
sidah it well wuhth the twip heah to the Pewiph-
ewy to see thiB copy of Lameth. Would you be-
lieve it, my libwawy totally lacks a copy. By the
way, Doctah Piwenne, you have not fohgotten
yoah pwomise to twansdevelop a copy foah me
befoah I leave?"
“Only too pleased."
“Lameth, you must know," continued the chan-
cellor, pontifically, “pwesents a new and most in-
tewesting addition to my pwevious knowledge of
the ‘Owigin Question,' "
“Which question?" asked Hardin.
“The ‘Owigin Question.' The place of the owi-
gin of the human species, y’know. Suahly you
must know that it is thought that owiginally the
human wace occupied only one planetawy system."
"Well, yes, I know that."
“Of cohse, no one knows exactly which system
it is — lost in the mists of antiquity. Theah ah
theawies, howevah. Siwius, some say. Othahs in-
sist on Alpha Centauwi, oah on Sol, oah on 61
Cygni — all in the Siwius sectah, you see."
“And what does Lameth say?"
“Well, he goes off along a new twail completely.
He twies to show that ahchaeological wemains on
the thuhd planet of the Ahctuwian System show
that humanity existed theah befoah theah wah
any indications of space-twavel."
“And that means It was humanity’s birth
planet?"
“P’haps. I must wead it closely and weigh the
evidence befoah I can say foah cuhtain. One must
see just how weliable his obsuhvations ah."
Hardin remained silent for a short while. Then
he said, “When did Lameth write his book?"
“Oh — I should say about eight hundwed yeahs
ago. Of cohse, he has based it lahgely on the
pwevious wuhk of Gleen.”
“Then why rely on him? Why not go to Arc-
turus and study the remains for yourself?”
Lord Dorwin raised his eyebrows and took a
pinch of snuff hurriedly. “Why. whatevah foah,
my deah fellow?”
“To get the information firsthand, of course."
“But wheah’s the necessity? It seems an un-
commonly woundabout and hopelessly wigma-
wolish method of getting anywheahs. Look heah,
now, I've got the wuhks of all the old mastahs —
the gweat ahchaeologists of the past. I weigh
them against each othah — balance the disagwee-
ments — analyze the conflicting statements — decide
which is pwobably cowwect — and come to a con-
clusion. That is the scientific method. At least”
— patronizingly — "as / see it. How insuffewably
cwude it would be to go to Ahctuwus, oah to Sol.
foah instance, and blundah about, when the old
mastahs have covahed the gwound so much moah
effectually than we could possibly hope to do.”
Hardin murmured politely, “I see.”
Scientific method, hell ! No wonder the Galaxy
was going to pot.
“Come, milord,” said Pirenne, “I think we had
better be returning."
“Ah, yes. P’haps we had."
As they left the room, Hardin said suddenly,
“Milord, may I ask a question?"
Lord Dorwin smiled blandly and emphasized
his answer with a gracious flutter of the hand.
"Cuhtainly, my deah fellow. Only too happy to
be of suhvice. If I can help you in any way
fwom my pooah stoah of knowledge — "
“It isn't exactly about archaeology, milord."
“No?”
“No. It's this: Last year we received news
here in Terminus about the explosion of a power
plant on Planet V of Gamma Andromeda. We
got the barest outline of the accident — no details
at all. I wonder if you could tell me exactly
what happened.”
Pirenne's mouth twisted. “I wonder you annoy
his lordship with questions on totally irrelevant
subjects.”
“Not at all, Doctah Piwenne," interceded the
chancellor. “It is quite all wight. Theah isn’t
much to say concuhning it in any case. The powah
plant did explode and it was quite a catastwo-
phe, y'know. I believe sevewal million people
wah killed and at least half the planet was sim-
ply laid in wuins. Weally, the govuhnment is
sewiously considewing placing seveah westwic-
tions upon the indiscwiminate use of atomic
powah — though that is not a thing for genewal
publication, y’know."
"I understand," said Hardin. "But what was
wrong with the plant?”
“Well, weally,” replied Lord Dorwin indiffer-
ently, “who knows? It bad bwoken down some
yeahs pweviously and it is thought that the we-
placements and wepaiah wuhk was most infewiah.
It is so difficult these days to find men who weally
undahstand the moah technioal details of ouah
powah systems." And he took a sorrowful pinch
of snuff.
“You realize," said Hardin, “that the independ-
48
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
ent kingdoms of the Periphery have lost atomic
power altogether?”
“Have they? I’m not at all suhpwised. Bar-
bawous planets— Oh, but my deah fellow, don't
call them independent. They ahn’t, y’know. The
tweaties we’ve made with them ah pwoof posi-
tive of that. They acknowledge the soveweignty
of the Empewah. They'd have to, of cohse, oah
we wouldn’t tweat with them.”
“That may be so, but they have considerable
freedom of action.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Considewable. But that
scahcely mattahs. The Empiah is fah bettah off,
with the Pewiphewy thwown upon its own we-
soahces — as it is, moali oah less. They ahn't any
good to us, y'know. Most bahbawous planets.
Scahcely civilized.”
"They were civilized in the past. Anacreon
was one of the richest of the outlying provinces.
I understand it compared favorably with Vega
itself.”
“Oh, but, Hahdin, that was centuwies ago. You
can scahcely dwaw conclusion fwom that. Things
wah diffewent in the old gweat days. We ahn’t
the men we used to be, y’know. But, Hahdin,
come, you ah a most puhsistent chap. I’ve told
you I simply won’t discuss business today. Doc-
tah Piwenne did pwepayah me foah you. He told
me you would twy to badgah me, but I’m fah too
old a hand foah that. Leave it foah next day.”
And that was that.
This was the second meeting of the Board that
Hardin had attended, if one were to exclude the
informal talks the Board members had had with
the now-departed Lord Dorwin. Yet the mayor
had a perfectly definite idea that at least one
other, and possibly two or three, had been held, to
which he had somehow never received an invita-
tion.
Nor, it seemed to him, would he have received
notification of this one had it not been for the
ultimatum.
At least, it amounted to an ultimatum, though
a superficial reading of the visigraphed document
would lead one to suppose that it was a friendly
interchange of greetings between two potentates.
Hardin fingered it gingerly. It started off flor-
idly with a salutation from “His Puissant Maj-
esty, the King of Anacreon, to his friend and
brother, Dr. Lewis Pirenne, Chairman of the
Board of Trustees, of the Encyclopedia Founda-
tion Number One,” and it ended even more lav-
ishly with a gigantic, multicolored seal of the
most involved symbolism.
But it was an ultimatum just the same.
Hardin said: “It turned out that we didn’t
have much time after all — only three months. But
little as it was, we threw it away unused. This
thing here gives us a week. What do we do now?”
Pirenne frowned worriedly. “There must be a
loophole. It is absolutely unbelievable that they
would push matters to extremities in the face of
what Lord Dorwin has assured us regarding the
attitude of the Emperor and the Empire.”
Hardin perked up. “I see. You have informed
the King of Anacreon of this alleged attitude?”
“I did — after having placed the proposal to the
Board for a vote and having received unanimous
consent.”
"And when did this vote take place?”
Pirenne climbed onto his dignity. “I do not
believe I am answerable to you in any way, Mayor
Hardin.”
“All right. I’m not that vitally interested. It’s
just my opinion that it was your diplomatic trans-
mission of Lord Dorwin’s valuable contribution
to the situation” — he lifted the corner of his mouth
in a sour half-smile— “that was the direct cause
of this friendly little note. They might have de-
layed longer otherwise — though I don’t think the
additional time would have helped Terminus any.
considering the attitude of the Board."
Said Yate Fulham: “And just how do you ar-
rive at that remarkable conclusion, Mr. Mayor?”
“In a rather simple way. It merely required the
use of that much-neglected commodity — common
sense. You see, there is a branch of human knowl-
edge known as symbolic logic, which can be used
to prune away all sorts of clogging deadwood
that clutters up human language.”
“What about it?" said Fulham.
“I applied it. Among other things, I applied it
to this document here. I didn’t really need to
for myself because I knew what it was all about,
but I think I can explain it more easily to five
physical scientists by symbols rather than by
words.”
Hardin removed a few sheets of paper from the
pad under his arm and spread them out. “I didn’t
do this myself, by the way," he said. “Muller
Hoik of the Division of Logic has his name signed
to the analyses, as you can see.”
Pirenne leaned over the table to get a better
view and Hardin continued : “The message from
Anacreon was a simple problem, naturally, for
the men who wrote it were men of action rather
than men of words. It boils down easily and
straightforwardly to the unqualified statement,
which in symbols is what you see, and which in
words, roughly translated, is, ’You give us what
we want in a week, or we beat the hell out of you
and take it anyway.’ ”
There was silence as the five members of the
Board ran down the line of symbols, and then
Pirenne sat down and coughed uneasily.
Hardin said, “No loophole, is there, Dr. Pi-
renne?”
“Doesn’t seem to be.”
FOUNDATION
49
“All right." Hardin replaced the sheets. “Be-
fore you now you see a copy of the treaty be-
tween the Empire and Anacreon — a treaty, inci-
dentally, which is signed on the Emperor’s behalf
by the same Lord Dorwin who was here last week
— and with it a symbolic analysis.”
The treaty ran through five pages of fine print
and the analysis was scrawled out in just under
half a page.
“As you see, gentlemen, something like ninety
percent of the treaty boiled right out of the analy-
sis as being meaningless, and what we end up with
can be described in the following interesting man-
ner :
“Obligations of Anacreon to the Empire:
None!
“Powers of the Empire over Anacreon: None!”
Again the five followed the reasoning anxiously,
checking carefully back to the treaty, and when
they were finished, Pirenne said in a worried fash-
ion, “That seems to be correct.”
“You admit, then, that the treaty is nothing but
a declaration of total independence on the part
of Anacreon and a recognition of that status by
the Empire?"
“It seems so.”
"And do you suppose that Anacreon doesn’t
realize that, and is not anxious to emphasize the
position of independence — so that it would natu-
rally tend to resent any appearance of threats from
the Empire? Particularly when it is evident that
the Empire is powerless to fulfill any such threats,
or it would never have allowed independence.”
“But then,” interposed Sutt, “how would Mayor
Hardin account for Lord Dorwin's assurances of
Empire support? They seemed — " He shrugged.
“Well, they seemed satisfactory.”
Hardin threw himself back in the chair. “You
know, that’s the most interesting part of the whole
business. I’ll admit I had thought his lordship
a most consummate donkey when I first met him
— but it turned out that he was actually an accom-
plished diplomat and a most clever man. I took
the liberty of recording all his statements."
There was a flurry, and Pirenne opened his
mouth in horror.
“What of it?" demanded Hardin. "I realize it
was a gross breach of hospitality and a thing no
so-called gentleman would do. Also, that if his
lordship had caught on, things might have been
unpleasant: but he didn't, and I have the record,
and that’s that. I took that record, had it copied
out and sent that to Hoik for analysis, also."
Lundin Crast said, “And where is the analysis?”
“That,” replied Hardin, “is the interesting
thing. The analysis was the most difficult of the
three by all odds. When Hoik, after two days of
steady work, succeeded in eliminating meaning-
less statements, vague gibberish, useless qualifi-
cations — in short, all the goo and dribble — he
found he had nothing left. Everything canceled
out.
“Lord Dorwin, gentlemen, in five days of dis-
cussion didn’t say one damned thing, and said it
so you never noticed. There are the assurances
you had from your precious Empire.”
Hardin might have placed an actively working
stench bomb upon the table and created no more
confusion than existed after his last statement.
He waited, with weary patience, for it to die down.
“So,” he concluded, “when you sent threats —
and that’s what they were — concerning Empire
action to Anacreon, you merely irritated a mon-
arch who knew better. Naturally, his ego would
demand immediate action, and the ultimatum is
the result — which brings me to my original state-
ment. We have one week left and what do we
do now?"
“It seems,” said Sutt, "that we have no choice
but to allow Anacreon to establish military bases
on Terminus."
“I agree with you there," replied Hardin, “but
what do we do toward kicking them off again at
the first opportunity?”
Yate Fulham's mustache twitched. “That sounds
as if you have made up your mind that violence
must be used against them.”
“Violence," came the retort, “is the last refuge
of the incompetent. But I certainly don't intend
to lay down the welcome mat and brush off the
best furniture for their use.”
“I still don’t like the way you put that," insisted
Fulham. “It is a dangerous attitude; the more
dangerous because we have noticed lately that a
sizable section of the populace seems to respond
to all your suggestions just so. I might as well
tell you, Mayor Hardin, that the Board is not
quite blind to your recent activities."
He paused and there was general agreement.
Hardin shrugged.
Fulham went on: “If you were to inflame the
City into an act of violence, you would achieve
elaborate suicide — and we don’t intend to allow
that. Our policy has but one cardinal principle,
and that is the Encyclopedia. Whatever we de-
cide to do or not to do will be so decided because
it will be the measure required to keep that En-
cyclopedia safe."
“Then,” said Hardin, “you come to the conclu-
sion that we must continue our intensive campaign
of doing nothing.”
Pirenne said bitterly: “You have yourself dem-
onstrated that the Empire cannot help us ; though
how and why it can be so, I don't understand. If
compromise is necessary — "
Hardin had the nightmarelike sensation of run-
ning at top speed and getting nowhere. “There
is no compromise? Don’t you realize that this
bosh about military bases is- a particularly in-
50
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
ferior grade of drivel? Haut Rodric told us what
Anacreon was after — outright annexation and im-
position of its own feudal system of landed estates
and peasant-aristocracy economy upon us. What
is left of our bluff of atomic power may force
them to move slowly, but they will move none-
theless.”
He had risen indignantly, and the rest rose with
him — except for Jord Fara.
And then Jord Fara spoke. "Everyone will
please sit down. We’ve gone quite far enough, I
think. Come, there's no use looking so furious,
Mayor Hardin; none of us have been committing
treason.”
"You’ll have to convince me of that!”
Fara smiled gently. "You know you don’t mean
that. Let me speak!”
His little shrewd eyes were half closed, and the
perspiration gleamed on the smooth expanse of
his chin. “There seems no point in concealing
that the Board has come to the decision that the
real solution to the Anacreonian problem lies in
what is to be revealed to us when the First Vault
opens six days from now."
“Is that your contribution to the matter?”
“Yes.”
“We are to do nothing, is that right, except to
wait in quiet serenity and utter faith for the deus
ex machina to pop out of the First Vault?”
"Stripped of your emotional phraseology, that’s
the idea.”
“Such unsubtle escapism! Really, Dr. Fara,
such folly smacks of genius. A lesser mind would
be incapable of it.”
Fara smiled indulgently. “Your taste in epi-
grams is amusing, Hardin, but out of place. As
a matter of fact, I think you remember my line
of argument concerning the First Vault about
three weeks ago.”
“Yes. I remember it. I don’t deny that it was
anything but a stupid idea from the standpoint
of deductive logic alone. You said — stop me when
I make a mistake— that Hari Seldon was the great-
est psychologist in the System; that, hence, he
could foresee the tight and uncomfortable spot
we’re in now; that, hence, he established the First
Vault as a method of telling us the way out.”
“You’ve got the essence of the idea.”
“Would it surprise you to hear that I’ve given
considerable thought to the matter these last
weeks?”
“Very flattering. With what result?”
“With the result that pure deduction is found
wanting. Again what is needed is a little sprin-
kling of common sense.”
“For instance?”
“For instance, if he foresaw the Anacreonian
mess, why not have placed us on some other planet
nearer the Galactic centers? Why put us out here
at all if he could see in advance the break in com-
munication lines, our isolation from the Galaxy,
the threat of our neighbors — and our helplessness
because of the lack of metals on Terminus? That
above all! Or if he foresaw all this, why not
have warned the original settlers in advance that
they might have had time to prepare, rather than
wait, as he is doing, until one foot is over the
cliff, before doing so?
“And don’t forget this. Even though he could
foresee the problem then, we can see it equally
well now. Therefore, if he could foresee the solu-
tion then, we should be able to see the solution
now. After all, Seldon was not a magician. There
are no trick methods of escaping from a dilemma
that he can see and we can’t.”
“But, Hardin,” reminded Fara, “we can't!”
"But you haven’t tried. You haven’t tried once.
First, you refused to admit that there was a men-
ace at all! Then you reposed an absolutely blind
faith in the Emperor! Now you’ve shifted it to
Hari Seldon. Throughout you have invariably
relied on authority or on the past— never on your-
selves."
His fists balled spasmodically. “It amounts to
a diseased attitude — a conditioned reflex that
shunts aside the independence of your minds
whenever it is a question of opposing authority.
There seems no doubt ever in your minds that the
Emperor is more powerful than you are, or Hari
Seldon wiser. And that’s wrong, don’t you see?”
For some reason, no one cared to answer him.
Hardin continued: “It isn’t just you. It’s the
whole Galaxy. Pirenne heard Lord Dorwin’s idea
of scientific research. Lord Dorwin thought the
way to be a good archaeologist was to read all
the books on the subject — written by men who
were dead for centuries. He thought that the
way to solve archaeological puzzles was to weigh
opposing authorities. And Pirenne listened and
made no objections. Don’t you see that there’s
something wrong with that?”
Again the note of near-pleading in his voice.
Again no answer.
He went on: “And you men and half of Ter-
minus as well are just as bad. We sit here, con-
sidering the Encyclopedia the all-in-all. We con-
sider the greatest end of science to be the classi-
fication of past data. It is important, but is there
no further work to be done? We’re receding and
forgetting, don’t you see? Here in the Periphery
they’ve lost atomic power. In Gamma Andromeda,
a power plant has blown up because of poor re-
pairs, and the Chancellor of the Empire complains
that atomic technicians are scarce. And the so-
lution? To train new ones? Never! Instead,
they’re to restrict atomic power."
And for the third time: “Don’t you see? It's
FOUNDATION
Galaxy-wide. It’s a worship of the past. It’s a
deterioration — a stagnation!”
He stared from one to the other and they gazed
fixedly at him.
Fara was the first to recover. “Well, mystical
philosophy isn’t going to help us here. Let us
be concrete. Do you deny that Hari Seldon could
easily have worked out historical trends of the
future by simple psychological technique?”
"No, of course not,” cried Hardin. “But we
can’t rely on him for a solution. At best, he
might indicate the problem, but if ever there is
to be a solution, we must work it out ourselves.
He can’t do it for us.”
Fulham spoke suddenly. "What do you mean
— ‘indicate the problem’? We know the problem.”
Hardin whirled on him. “You think you do?
You think Anacreon is all Hari Seldon is likely
to be worried about. I disagree ! I tell you, gen-
tlemen, that as yet none of you has the faintest
conception of what is really going on.”
“And you do?” questioned Pirenne, hostilely.
“I think so!” Hardin jumped up and pushed
his chair away. His eyes were cold and hard.
“If there’s one thing that’s definite, it is that
there’s something smelly about the whole situa-
tion ; something that is bigger than anything we've
talked about yet. Just ask yourself this question:
Why was it that among the original population of
the Foundation not one first-class psychologist
was included, except Bor Alurin? And he care-
fully refrained from training his pupils in more
than the fundamentals.”
A short silence and Fara said: “All right.
Why?”
“Perhaps because a psychologist might have
caught on to what this was all about — and too
soon to suit Hari Seldon. As it is, we've been
stumbling about, getting misty glimpses of the
truth and no more. And that is what Hari Seldon
wanted.”
He laughed harshly. “Good day, gentlemen!”
He stalked out of the room.
Mayor Hardin chewed at the end of his cigar.
It had gone out but he was past noticing that. He
hadn’t slept the night before and he had a good
idea that he wouldn’t sleep this coming night.
His eyes showed it.
He said wearily, “And that covers it?”
“I think so.” Yohan Lee put a hand to his chin.
“How does it sound?”
“Not too bad. It’s got to be done, you under-
stand, with impudence. That is, there is to be no
hesitation; no time to allow them to grasp the
situation. Once we are in a position to give or-
ders, why, give them as though you were born
to do so, and they'll obey out of habit. That’s the
essence of a coup.”
“If the Board remains irresolute for even — ”
“The Board? Count them out. After tomor-
row, their importance as a factor in Terminus
affairs won’t matter a rusty half-credit.”
Lee nodded slowly. “Yet it is strange that
they’ve done nothing to stop us so far. You say
they weren’t entirely in the dark.”
“Fara indicated as much. And Pirenne’s been
suspicious of me since I was elected. But, you
see, they never had the capacity of really under-
standing what was up. Their whole training has
been authoritarian. They are sure that the Em-
peror, just because he is the Emperor, is all-pow-
erful. And they are sure that the Board of Trust-
ees, simply because it is the Board of Trustees
acting in the name of the Emperor, cannot be in
a position where it does not give the orders. That
incapacity to recognize the possibility of revolt
is our best ally.”
He heaved out of his chair and went to the water
cooler. “They’re not bad fellows, Lee, when they
stick to their Encyclopedia — and we'll see that
that’s where they stick in the future. They’re
52
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
hopelessly incompetent when it comes to ruling
Terminus. Go away, now, and start things roll-
ing. I want to be alone."
He sat down on the corner of his desk and
stared at the cup of water.
Space! If only he were as confident as he pre-
tended! The Anacreonians were landing in two
days and what had he to go on but a set of no-
tions and half-guesses as to what Hari Seldon had
been driving at these past fifty years? He wasn’t
even a real, honest-to-goodness psychologist — just
a fumbler with a little training trying to outguess
the greatest mind of the age.
If Fara were right; if Anacreon were all the
problem Hari Seldon had foreseen; if the Ency-
clopedia were all he was interested in preserving
— then what price coup d'Stat?
He shrugged and drank his water.
The First Vault was furnished with consider-
ably more than six chairs, as though a larger com-
pany had been expected. Hardin noted that
thoughtfully and seated himself wearily in a cor-
ner just as far from the other five as possible.
The Board members did not seem to object to
that arrangement. They spoke among themselves
in whispers, which fell off into sibilant mono-
syllables, and then into .nothing at all. Of them
all, only Jord Fara seemed even reasonably calm.
He had produced a watch and was staring at It
somberly.
Hardin glanced at his own watch and then at
the glass cubicle— absolutely empty— that domi-
nated half the room. It was the only unusual fea-
ture of the room, for aside from that there was
no indication that somewhere a speck of radium
was wasting away toward that precise moment
when a tumbler would fall, a connection be made
and —
The lights went dim!
They didn’t go out, but merely yellowed and
sank with a suddenness that made Hardin jump.
He had lifted his eyes to the ceiling lights in
startled fashion, and when he brought them down
the glass cubicle was no longer empty.
A figure occupied it— a figure in a wheel chair!
It said nothing for a few moments, but it closed
the book upon its lap and fingered it idly. And
then it smiled, and the face seemed all alive.
It said, “I am Hari Seldon.” The voice was old
and soft.
Hardin almost rose to acknowledge the intro-
duction and stopped himself in the act.
The voice continued conversationally: “I can't
see you, you know, so I can’t greet you properly.
I don’t even know how many of you there are,
so all this must be conducted informally. If any
of you are standing, please sit down; and if you
care to smoke, I wouldn’t mind.” There was a
light chuckle. “Why should I? I’m not really
here.”
Hardin fumbled for a cigar almost automati-
cally, but thought better of it.
Hari Seldon put away his book — as if laying it
upon a desk at his side — and when his fingers let
go, it disappeared.
He said : “It is fifty years now since this Foun-
dation was established — fifty years in which the
members of the Foundation have been ignorant
of what it was they were working toward. It was
necessary that they be ignorant, but now the neces-
sity is gone.
“The Encyclopedia Foundation, to begin with,
is a fraud, and always has been!”
There was the sound of a scramble behind Har-
din and one or two muffled exclamations, but he
did not turn around.
Hari Seldon was, of course, andisturbed. He
went on: “It is a fraud in the sense that neither
I nor my colleagues care at all whether a single
volume of the Encyclopedia is ever published. It
has served its purpose, since by it we extracted an
imperial charter from the Emperor, by it we at-
tracted the hundred thousand scientists necessary
for our scheme, and by it we managed to keep
them preoccupied while events shaped themselves,
until it was too latt for any of them to draw back.
“In the fifty years that you have worked on
this fraudulent project — there is no use in soften-
ing phrases — your retreat has been cut off, and
you have now no choice but to proceed on the
infinitely more important project that was, and is,
our real plan.
“To that end we have placed you on such a
planet and at such a time that in fifty years you
were maneuvered to the point where you no longer
have freedom of action. From now on, and into
the centuries, the path you must take is inevi-
table. You will be faced with a series of crises,
as you are now faced with the first, and in each
case your freedom of action will become similarly
circumscribed so that you will be forced along
one, and only one, path.
“It is that path which our psychology has
worked out — and for a reason.
“For centuries Galactic civilization has stag-
nated and declined, though only a few ever real-
ized that. But now, at last, the Periphery is break-
ing away and the political unity of the Empire is
shattered. Somewhere in the fifty years just past
is where the historians of the future will place an
arbitrary line and say: ‘This marks the Fall of
the Galactic Empire.’
“And they will be right, though scarcely any
will recognize that Fall for additional centuries.
“And after the Fall will come inevitable bar-
barism, a period which, our psychohistory tells
us, should, under ordinary circumstances, last
FOUNDATION
53
from thirty to fifty thousand years. We cannot
stop the Fall. We do not wish to; for Empire
culture has lost whatever virility and worth it
once had. But we can shorten the period of bar-
barism that must follow— down to a single thou-
sand of years.
“The ins and outs of that shortening, we cannot
tell you; just as we could not tell you the truth
about the Foundation fifty years ago. Were you
to discover those ins and outs, our plan might
fail; as it would have, had you penetrated the
fraud of the Encyclopedia earlier; for then, by
knowledge, your freedom of action would be ex-
panded and the number of additional variables
introduced would become greater than our psy-
chology could handle.
“But you won't, for there are no psychologists
on Terminus, and never were, but for Alurin —
and he was one of us.
“But this I can tell you: Terminus and its
companion Foundation at the other end of the
Galaxy are the seeds of the Renascence and the
future founders of the Second Galactic Empire.
And it is the present crisis that is starting Ter-
minus off to that climax.
“This, by the way, is a rather straightforward
crisis, much simpler than many of those that are
ahead. To reduce it to its fundamentals, it is this:
You are a planet suddenly cut off from the still-
civilized centers of the Galaxy, and threatened by
your stronger neighbors. You are a small world
of scientists surrounded by vast and rapidly ex-
panding reaches of barbarism. You are an island
of atomic power in a growing ocean of more
primitive energy; but are helpless despite that,
because of your lack of metals.
“You see, then, that you are faced by hard ne-
THE
m TIMES
If Asimov’s little puzzle in “Foundation" is not
obvious to you — the elements necessary for the
solution are all there — you’ll be doubly interested
in "Bridle and Saddle,” coming next issue. It's
a sequel to “Foundation,” and the second of a
series that looks to me as though it had nice pos-
sibilities. There are, really, two stages in a cul-
ture that produce eras of romantic adventure;
when it is collapsing, and when, renascent, it is
coming out of its eclipse into a new form. Asimov
has in mind a series that will follow the collapse
of the Empire, and watch the tides of the new
barbarism trying to tear down the Foundation.
Animals of a species don’t like, and try to destroy,
other individuals of the species which are differ-
ent. Cultures — even collapsing, barbaric cultures
— tend to hate and want to destroy the different
and higher cultures near them, if they can.
“Bridle and Saddle” gives a nice answer to a
stiff problem.
Lester del Rey is back again next month with
cessity, and that action is forced on you. The
nature of that action — that is, the solution to your
dilemma — is, of course, obvious!”
The image of Hari Seldon reached into open
air and the book once more appeared in his hand.
He opened it and said:
"But whatever devious course your future his-
tory may take, impress it always upon your de-
scendants that the path has been marked out, and
that at its end is new and greater Empire I”
And as his eyes bent to his book, he flicked into
nothingness, and the lights brightened once more.
Hardin looked up to see Pirenne facing him,
eyes tragic and lips trembling.
The chairman’s voice was firm but toneless.
“You were right, it seems. If you will see us
tonight at six, the Board will consult with you
as to the next move.”
They shook his hand, each one, and left; and
Hardin smiled to himself. They were fundamen-
tally sound at that; for they were scientists
enough to admit that they were wrong — but for
them, it was too late.
He looked at his watch. By this time, it was
all over. Lee’s men were in control and the Board
was giving orders no longer.
The Anacreonians were landing their first space-
ships tomorrow, but that was all right, too. In
six months, they would be giving orders no longer.
In fact, as Hari Seldon had said, and as Salvor
Hardin had guessed since the day that Anselm
haut Rodric had first revealed to him Anacreon's
lack of atomic power — the solution to this first
crisis was obvious.
Obvious as all hell!
END.
TO COME
“My Name Is Legion," which is unquestionably
a story of pure wish-fulfillment character. I im-
agine that most of us have, at various times dur-
ing the past couple of years, devoted a certain
amount of cogitation to the problem of just what
would make a really suitable handling of the Hit-
ler problem. Not the Nazi problem — the more
personal one of what Herr Schickelgruber really
needs in a personal way. The Elba-St. Helena
sort of thing may have sufficed for Napoleon, but
somehow it doesn’t seem adequate for Hitler.
Del Rey proposes one of the neatest forms of
exile and punishment I’ve seen. The nicest part
about it would be that you’d have a chance to
observe the entire course of the exile.
Del Rey himself, incidentally, is temporarily
out of action due to an argument with a piece of
ice, a concrete sidewalk, and the law of gravity.
The ice ran out on him, and the law of gravity
won over a bone. A cracked vertebra is no fun.
The Editor.
54
BOOK REVIEW
Got a piece of paper and pencil handy? All
fight — take this down : “The Days of Creation,”
by Willy Ley, published by Modern Age Books,
New York — 320 pp., illustrated. $2.75.
Don’t borrow this book. Buy it. Buy two copies
if you can afford it, one for yourself and one to
loan to your friends.
Now don’t misunderstand me. Neither I, nor
Street & Smith, have any financial interest in the
transaction. This is pure love, unsolicited ad-
miration. I wish I had written it. I wish I could
write it.
All right, all right — I’ll get around to telling
what the book is about. Don’t rush me. It is a
short biography of the Universe, starting with “In
the beginning” and closing with the Age of Man —
and a brief, thrilling prophecy of the future. This
book does not discuss the politics and wars of the
human race; it discusses everything else. This
book is the nearest thing to a complete picture of
the world we live in I recall having seen; it may
be the best such picture possible for one book, one
author, this date.
Mr. Ley has arranged his account to parallel that
given in the first chapter of Genesis, not only be-
cause that arrangement is simple, dramatic and
familiar, but also because the account in Genesis
is, bearing in mind differences in language and
its extreme brevity, remarkably similar to modern
scientific conception. The book has seven chapters,
the Seven Days of Creation ; the appropriate verses
from Genesis stand as chapter headings. But do
not let me lead you into thinking that the work is
an attempt to reconcile “Science" and “Religion.”
I had better let the author speak for himself on
that point. After discussing, in the preface, the
amazing and delightful similarity between almost
all ancient accounts of creation, he says:
“Not reasons of high philosophy nor attempts to
reconcile ideas that need no reconciling, but the
pure joy of comparing two stories, each of them
fascinating in itself and doubly so when regarded
together.”
First Day: “Let There Be Light.” A sparkling
account of all the stories of the origin of the
physical universe, mythological, classical and mod-
ern, with detailed rendering of best to date. Cos-
mogony, astronomy, astrophysics and modern
nuclear physics.
Second Day: “The Division of the Waters.”
From cosmogony we proceed to geogony, to
geology, to biology and the first appearance of life
on this planet.
Third Day: “The Conquest of the Land."
Paleontology and genetics combine to explain the
story of how Life made the incredible jump from
the seas to the barren, sterile, forbidding rocks of
the shore.
Fourth Day: “The Great New Invention.” It
is alleged that a devout Moslem rug weaver will
always introduce an imperfection into his pattern,
as Allah alone is perfect. It is almost a pleasure
to find, or seem to find, a fault in Willy Ley. It
restores one’s own self-confidence. There are two
“Great Inventions” in this chapter; I am not sure
to which the title refers. One is — quite seriously!
— seasons. The other is warm-bloodedness. One
led to the other. After a considerable period, some
millions of years, of uniform climate, things began
to happen to the weather — hot days and cold
nights, winter snow and summer sun, tropical ages
and ice ages. Some of the animals acquired a
built-in thermostat and ceased being reptiles.
Geology, meteorology, vulcanology, paleontol-
ogy, genetics, chemistry and a seasoning of other
sciences, suffices to get us through this chapter.
But do not be alarmed — this is a lecture course
with no prerequisites; Ley supplies all the neces-
sary information, wittily and charmingly.
Fifth Day: “The Triumph of the Reptiles.”
See Disney’s “Fantasia." Better yet, see Ley's
“Days of Creation.” I am very fond of stegosauri
and still more so of triceratops, but these self-
contained panzer divisions have received more than
their share of publicity — I won't add to it. But
Mr. Ley gives them their due, with no bonus.
Sixth Day: “The Glory of the Mammals.” We
can’t all live near the Bronx Zoo, and, anyhow,
some of them have been in the La Brea tar pits —
which means the “tar pit” tar pits — a long time.
Smylodon, and the lovely short-faced bear, and
many others.
Seventh Day: “The Consolidation of Brain
Power.” Man got here late, and poorly equipped —
naked, soft, unarmed and unarmored. He had to
be smart — or die. But other animals had brains,
too. Just what was it he had that brought him
to the top? And will he stay there? Buy the
book.
Mr. Ley has convinced me that Man will stay
on top. I now believe that Doc Smith’s most
supergalactic dreams are no more than hard-
headed prediction. The book concludes with a
prophetic peroration which should cheer up the
faint-hearted these depressing days.
Thank you, Willy Ley!
R. A. Heinlein.
55
By Anson MacDonald
• Second of Two Ports. If the world were perfect, working
smoothly, without fuss or strain— why live? What's the purpose?
That was Hamilton Felix's question. But in essence he found
answer enough in two things that were no answer to that—
Illustrated by Rogers
Synopsis
Part One of Anson MacDonald's story is, itself, al-
most a synopsis, covering an outline of three hundred
years of history of controlled genetics and the civiliza-
tion it has brought into being.
The manners of the time, the whole system of thought,
grows out of the system of genetic control that makes
it certain that every couple will have, if they want, the
best possible child their heredity makes possible — not
just any haphazard assemblage of good and bad charac-
teristics each parent might contribute. One added fac-
tor helps to improve the manners, politeness, and speed
of reflexes in the race. Dueling is common, and the
weapons used are exceedingly potent, and usually deadly.
Bad manners, quarrelsome disposition, thoughtlessness
for another's welfare and slow reSexes are, under those
circumstances, practically certain sudden death. Unless,
of course, one chooses the refuge of the "brassard of
peace" — an armband disclaiming ability to protect one-
self.
Hamilton Felix is a professional inventor of super-
pinball machines, gambling gadgets for amusement places.
56
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
He does that because he can do so without effort, and
he refuses to make any real effort — for a reason. He’s
a second-line genius, an exceedingly brilliant man — and
intelligent enough to know that he is not and can't be
a first-line genius, one of the philosopher-kings of the
time, a synthesist who takes as his field of knowledge and
effort all human knowledge. He can't take first prize;
he sees no point in trying hard to take second prize.
Mordan Claude is a synthesist, the Genetics Moderator
in whose department is the duty of maintaining the op-
eration of the genetic selection service. He has called
Hamilton Felix in originally because Felix represents a
"star line" — a combination of favorable mutations which
the Genetics Department has been following and nur-
turing for two centuries. Felix is unmarried, and Mor-
dan wants the extremely valuable characteristics of the
Hamilton line carried on. Particularly, he'd like to see
Felix marry Longcourt Phyllis, a fifth cousin who repre-
sents a different but parallel "star line" of heredity.
The combination of favorable characteristics possible
to their children, Mordan assures him, would unques-
tionably guarantee that Felix's son would be a synthesist.
Hamilton Felix — though taken by Longcourt Phyllis,
who is naturally (being the high type a star-line heredity
necessitates) a thoroughly vital and stimulating sort of
person — is not at all taken with the idea. He propounds
a problem for Mordan to solve: Why should a human
being live ? What's the purpose of it? If Mordan will
give him an answer to that, or the beginnings of an an-
swer. he'll be willing to consider co-operation.
But in the meantime, Hamilton's gotten another in-
volvement; McFee Norbert and bis friends of the "Sur-
vivors Club" have approached Felix, and he has joined
them for bis own reasons. They propose setting up a
new government, using the possibilities of genetic con-
trol to produce not better, normal humans, but special-
ized semihuman beings, some all brain, some all muscle.
They will, of course, rule this new State themselves,
after murdering the present rulers.
They are, actually, a group of third-rate geniuses,
faced with a problem parallel to that of Hamilton Felix
— they can’t become synthesists because they haven't
the mental equipment it takes — but differ from him in
one feature: they haven't wit enough to know they
haven’t the ability.
Hamilton Felix's reason for joining is simple; he isn't
entirely content with the present set-up, but he's com-
pletely certain that the proposed set-up would be horrible.
They have asked Hamilton to join for three reasons;
his wealth, his intelligence, and because they know they
will need good heredity stock after the revolution. Ham-
ilton joined to make sure he found out, and so could
report to Mordan, all of those involved.
To his annoyance and surprise, he discovers that Mon-
roe-Alpha Clifford, a good friend of his, has joined.
Clifford is a statistician, a one-track mind, and something
of a mental lightweight with a tendency to blow hot and
blow cold over fads. This is simply his latest, but one
in which he is, now, very sincere. And, unfortunately,
it's one that is apt to prove very deadly. He had been
a lukewarm supporter — being fundamentally soft-hearted
— because of the problem of what to do with "control
naturals" — people who were born without benefit of the
genetic selection methods and who, therefore, are im-
perfect, subject to such archaic troubles as colds, tooth-
ache and kidney failure.
But recently J. Darlington Smith had been released at
last from the famous "Time Stasis," a volume of space
in the Adirondacks that had been somehow put into a
condition of absolute time stasis in 1926. The secret
had been solved only recently, and that secret gave Mc-
Fee Norbert an answer to his problem of satisfying the
soft-hearted. The new government’s undesirables would
simply be filed indefinitely in time-stasis condition.
With that understanding, Monroe-Alpha is wholeheart-
edly willing to co-operate when at last the zero hour is
announced. He starts out to do his share in wrecking
the government — and Hamilton Felix, knowing that
Mordan and the whole government knows about the
revolution, follows and stops him.
PART II.
“Felix I What do you mean? What’s come over
you?" His expression was so completely sur-
prised, so utterly innocent of wrongdoing, that
Hamilton was momentarily disconcerted. Was it
possible that Monroe-Alpha, like himself, was in
it as an agent of the government and knew that
Hamilton was one also?
“Wait a minute," he said grimly. "What's your
status here? Are you loyal to the Survivors Club,
or are you in it as a spy?"
“A spy? Did you think I was a spy? Was that
why you grabbed my gun?”
"No,” Hamilton answered savagely, "I was afraid
you weren’t a spy."
"But- — "
"Get this. I am a spy. I'm in this thing to bust
it up. And, damn it, if I were a good one, I’d blow
your head off and get on with my work. You
bloody fool, you’ve gummed the whole thing up!”
"But . . . but, Felix, I knew you were in it. That
was one of the things that persuaded me. I knew
you wouldn’t — ”
“Well, I’m not! Where does that put you?
Where do you stand? Are you with me, or against
me?”
Monroe-Alpha looked from Hamilton’s face to
the gun in his fist, then back to his face. “Go
ahead and shoot,” he said.
"Don’t be a fool!"
“Go ahead. I may be a fool — I’m not a traitor."
"Not a traitor — you! You’ve already sold out
the rest of us.”
Monroe-Alpha shook his head. “I was born into
this culture. I had no choice and I owe it no loy-
alty. Now I’ve had a vision of a worth-while so-
ciety. I won’t sacrifice it to save my own skin.”
Hamilton swore. “ ’God deliver us from an
idealist.' Would you let that gang of rats run the
country?"
The telephone said softly but insistently, “Some-
one’s calling. Someone’s calling. Someone’s — ’’
They ignored it.
"They aren’t rats. They propose a truly scien-
tific society and I’m for it. Maybe the Change will
be a little harsh but that can’t be helped. It’s for
the best — ”
“Shut up. I haven't time to argue ideologies
with you.” He stepped toward Monroe-Alpha,
who drew back a little, watching him.
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
57
Hamilton suddenly, without taking his eyes off
Monroe-Alpha’s face, kicked him in the groin.
"Someone’s calling. Someone’s calling.” Hamil-
ton holstered his gun — fast — bent over the disabled
man and punched him in the pit of the stomach,
not with his fist but with stiffened fingers. It was
nicely calculated to paralyze the diaphragm — and
did. He dragged Monroe-Alpha to a point under
the telephone, placed a knee in the small of his
back and seized his throat with the left hand.
“One move is all you’ll get,” he warned. With
his right hand he cut in the phone. His face was
close to the pickup; nothing else would be trans-
mitted.
McFee Norbert’s face appeared in the frame.
“Hamilton !” he said. “What in hell are you doing
there?”
“I went home with Monroe-Alpha.”
"That’s direct disobedience. You’ll answer for
it — later. Where’s Monroe-Alpha?"
Hamilton gave a brief, false, but plausible, ex-
planation.
"A fine time to have to do that,” McFee com-
mented. “Give him these orders: He is relieved
from duty. Tell him to get as far away and stay
away, for forty-eight hours. I’ve decided to take
no chances with him."
“Right," said Hamilton.
“And you — do you realize how near you came
to missing your orders? You should be in action
ten minutes before the section group moves in.
Get going.”
“Now?”
“Now.”
Hamilton cleared the circuit. Monroe-Alpha
had started to struggle the second the phone came
to life. Hamilton had ground his knee into his
spine and clamped down hard on his throat, but it
was a situation which could not be maintained in-
definitely.
He eased up on Monroe-Alpha a little. “You
heard those orders?"
“Yes," Monroe-Alpha acknowledged hoarsely.
“You are going to carry them out. Where’s your
runabout?”
No answer. Hamilton dug in viciously. “An-
swer me. On the roof?”
“Yes.”
Hamilton did not bother to answer. He took his
heavy automatic from its holster and struck Mon-
roe-Alpha behind his right ear. The man’s head
jerked once, then sagged limply. Hamilton turned
to the phone and signaled Mordan’s personal num-
ber. He waited apprehensively while distant ma-
chinery hunted, fearful that the report would come
back, “NOWHERE AVAILABLE.” He was re-
lieved when the instrument reported instead,
“SIGNALING."
After an interminable time — all of three or four
seconds — Mordan’s face lighted up the frame. “Oh
— hello, Felix.”
“Claude — the time’s come! This is it.”
“Yes, I know. That's why I’m here." The back-
ground behind him showed his office.
“You — knew?"
“Yes, Felix.”
“But — Never mind. I’m coming over.”
"Yes, certainly.” He cut off.
Hamilton reflected grimly that one more surprise
would be just enough to cause him to start picking
shadows off the wall. But he had no time to worry
about it. He rushed into his friend’s bedchamber,
found what he wanted immediately — small pink
capsules, Monroe-Alpha’s habitual relief from the
peril of sleepless worry. He returned then and
examined Monroe-Alpha briefly. He was still out
cold.
He picked him up in his arms, went out into the
corridor, and sought the lift. He passed one
startled citizen on the way. Hamilton looked at
him, said, "Ssssh — You’ll waken him. Open the
lift for me, will you please?”
The citizen looked dubious, shrugged, and did as
he was requested.
He found Monroe-Alpha’s little skycar without
trouble, removed the key from his friend’s pocket,
and opened it. He dumped his burden inside, set
the pilot for the roof of the clinic, and depressed
the impeller bar. He had done all he could for the
moment; in over-city traffic automatic operation
was faster than manual. It would be five minutes,
or more, before he reached Mordan, but, even at
that, he had saved at least ten minutes over what
it would have taken by tube and slideway.
It consoled him somewhat for the time he had
wasted on Monroe-Alpha.
The man was beginning to stir. Hamilton took
a cup from the cooler, filled it with water, dis-
solved three of the capsules in it, and went to
his side. He slapped him.
Monroe-Alpha sat up. "Whassa matter?" he
said. “Stop it. What’s happened?”
"Drink this,” Hamilton commanded, putting the
cup to his lips.
“Wliat happened? My head hurts.”
“It ought to — you had quite a fall. Drink it.
You'll feel better.”
Monroe-Alpha complied docilely. When he had
finished, Hamilton watched him narrowly, wonder-
ing if he would have to slug him again before the
hypnotic took hold. But Monroe-Alpha said noth-
ing more, seemed still dazed, and shortly was
sleeping soundly.
The car grounded gently.
Hamilton raised the panel of the communicator,
shoved his foot inside, and pushed. There was a
satisfying sound of breaking crystal and snapping
wires. He set the pilot on due south, without des-
58
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
tination, opened the door, and stepped out. He
turned, reached inside, sought the impeller bar —
but hesitated without depressing it. He stepped
back inside and removed the selector key from the
pilot. He stepped out again, depressed the im-
peller — and ducked. As the door slammed shut,
the little runabout angled straight up, seeking
cruising altitude.
He did not wait for it to go out of sight, but
turned and started below.
Monroe-Alpha awoke with a dry mouth, an ex-
cruciatingly throbbing head, a nauseous feeling at
his midriff, and a sense of impending disaster. He
became aware of these things in that order.
He knew that he was in the air, in a skycar, and
alone, but how he had gotten there, why he was
there, escaped him. He had had some dreadful
nightmares — they seemed to have some bearing on
it. There was something he should be doing.
This was the Day, the Day of the Change! That
was it I
But why was he here? He should be with his
section. No. No, McFee had said —
What was it he had said? And where was Ham-
ilton? Hamilton was a spy l Hamilton was about
to betray them all I
He must inform McFee at once. Where was he?
No matter — call him!
It was then that he found the wrecked commu-
nicator. And the bright sunlight outside told him
that it was too late, too late. Whatever had come
of Hamilton's treachery had already happened.
Too late.
The pieces were beginning to fall into place. He
recalled the ugly interview with Hamilton, the mes-
sage from McFee, the fight. Apparently he had
been knocked out. There was nothing left to do
but to go back, turn himself in to his leader, and
confess his failure.
No, McFee had given him orders to stay out, to
stay away for two days. He must obey. “The
Whole is greater than the parts."
But those orders did not apply — McFee had not
known about Hamilton.
He knew now. That was certain. Therefore,
the orders did apply. What was it McFee had
said? “I’ve decided to take no chances on him.”
They didn’t trust him. Even McFee knew him
for what he was — a thumb-fingered idiot who oould
be depended on to do the wrong thing at the wrong
time.
He had never been any good. All he was fit for
was to do fiddling things with numbers. He knew
it. Everybody knew it. Hazel knew it. If he met
a girl he liked, the best he could do was to knock
her off her feet. Hamilton knew it. Hamilton
hadn’t even bothered to kill him — he wasn't worth
killing.
They hadn’t really wanted him in the Survivors
Club — not in a pinch. They just wanted him avail-
able to set up the accounting for the New Order.
McFee had spoken to him about that, asked him if
he could do it. Naturally, he could. That’s all he
was — a clerk.
Well, if they wanted him for that, he'd do it. He
wasn't proud. All he asked was to serve. It would
be a fairly simple matter to set up foolproof ac-
counting for a collective-type State. It would not
take him long ; after that, his usefulness ended, he
would be justified in taking the long sleep.
He got up, having found some comfort in com-
plete self-abnegation. He rinsed out his mouth,
drank more than a liter of water, and felt a little
better. He rummaged in the larder, opened a seal
of tomato juice, drank it, and felt almost human,
in a deeply melancholy way.
He then investigated his location. The car was
hovering; it had reached the extreme limit of its
automatic radius. The ground was concealed by
clouds, though it was bright sunlight where he
was. The pilot showed him the latitude and longi-
tude; a reference to the charts placed him some-
where over the Sierra Nevada Mountains — almost
precisely over the Park of the Giant Redwoods, he
noticed.
He derived a flicker of interest from that. The
Survivors Club, in their public social guise,
claimed the Generalsherman Tree as president
emeritus. It was a nice jest, he thought — the un-
killable, perfectly adapted Oldest Living Thing
on Earth.
The sabotaged pilot put wrinkles between his
eyes. He could fly the craft manually, but he
could not enter the traffic of the Capital until it
was repaired. He would have to seek some small
town —
No, McFee had said to go away and stay away —
and McFee meant what he said. If he went to any
town, he would be mixed up in the fighting.
He did not admit to himself that he no longer
had any stomach for it — that Hamilton’s words had
left him with unadmitted doubts.
Still, it must be repaired. There might be a re-
pair station at the Park — must be, in fact, in view
of the tourist traffic. And surely the Change
would not cause any fighting there.
He cut in the fog eyes and felt his way down.
When he grounded a single figure approached.
“You can’t stay," the man said, when he was in
earshot. "The Park’s closed.”
“I've got to have a repair," said Monroe-Alpha.
"Why is the Park closed?”
“Can’t say. Some trouble down below. The
rangers were called on special duty hours ago, and
we sent the tourists out. There’s nobody here
but me.”
“Can you repair?"
“Could — maybe. What’s the trouble?"
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
59
Monroe-Alpha showed him. “Can you fix it?”
“Not the talkie box. Might scare up some parts
for the pilot. What happened? Looks like you
smashed it yourself.”
“I didn't." He opened a locker, located his car
gun, and stuck it in his holster. The caretaker was
brassarded ; he shut up at once. “I think I’ll take
a walk while you fix it."
“Yes, sir. It won't take long.”
Monroe-Alpha took out his credit folder, tore
out a twenty-credit note, and handed it to the man.
“Here. Leave it in the hangar." He wanted to be
alone, to talk to no one at all, least of all this In-
quisitive stranger. He turned and walked away.
He had seen very little of the Big Trees in land-
ing; he had kept his eyes glued to the fog eyes
and had been quite busy with the problem of land-
ing. Nor had he ever been in the Park before.
True, he had seen pictures — who has not? — but
pictures are not the trees. He started out, more
intent on his inner turmoil than on the giants
around him.
But the place got him.
There was no sun, no sky. The trees lost them-
selves in a ceiling of mist, a remote distance over-
head. There was no sound. His own footsteps
lost themselves in a damp carpet of evergreen
needles. There was no limiting horizon, endless
succession only of stately columns, slim green
columns of sugar pine, a mere meter in thickness,
massive red-brown columns of the great ones them-
selves. They receded from him on all sides; the
eye could see nothing but trees — trees, the mist
overhead, and the carpet of their debris, touched
in spots by stubborn patches of gray snow.
An occasional drop of purely local rain fell,
dripping from the branches far above.
There was no time there. This had been, was,
and would be. Time was not. There was no need
for time here; the trees negated it, ignored it.
Seasons they might recognize, lightly, as one notes
and dismisses a passing minute. He had a feeling
that he moved too frantically for them to notice,
that he was too small for them to see.
He stopped, and approached one of the elders,
cautiously, as befits a junior in dealing with age.
He touched its coat, timidly at first, then with
palm-flat pressure, as he gained confidence. It was
not cool, as bark is, but warm and alive in spite
of the moisture that clung to it. He drew from
the tree, through its warm shaggy pelt, a mood of
tranquil strength. He felt sure, on a level of being
just below that of word-shaped thoughts, that the
tree was serene and sure of itself and, in some
earth-slow somber fashion, happy.
He was no longer capable of worrying over the
remote problems of his own ant hill. His scales
had changed, and the frenetic struggles of that
other world had faded both in time and distance
until he no longer discerned their details.
He came upon the Old One unexpectedly. He
had been moving through the forest, feeling it
rather than thinking about it. If there were signs
warning him of what lay ahead, he had not seen
them. But he needed no signs to tell him what
he saw. The other giants had been huge and old;
this one dwarfed them as they dwarfed the sugar
pines.
Four thousand years it had stood there, main-
taining, surviving, building its giant thews of liv-
ing wood. Egypt and Babylon were young with
it — it was still young. David had sung and died.
Great Caesar stained the senate floor with his am-
bitious blood. Mahomet fled. Colon Christofer
importuned a queen, and the white men found the
tree, still standing, still green. They named him
for a man known only through that fact — General-
sherman. The Generalsherman Tree.
It had no need of names. It was itself, the eldest
citizen, quiet, untroubled, alive and unworried.
He did nqt stay near it long. It helped him, but
its presence was overpowering to him, as it has
been to every man who has ever seen it. He went
back through the woods, finding the company of
those lesser immortals almost jovial by contrast.
When he got back near the underground hangar in
front of which he had left his runabout, he skirted
around it, not wishing to see anyone as yet. He
continued on.
Presently he found his way blocked by a solid
gray mass of granite which labored on up out of
sight in the mist. A series of flights of steps, clev-
erly shaped to blend into the natural rock, wound
up through its folds. There was a small sign at
the foot of the steps: MORO ROCK. He recog-
nized it, both from pictures and a brief glimpse
he had had of it through the fog in landing. It
was a great gray solid mass of stone, peak high
and mountain wide, a fit place for a Sabbat.
He started to climb. Presently the trees were
gone. There was nothing but himself, the gray
mist, and the gray rock. His feeling for up-and-
down grew shaky; he had to watch his feet and the
steps to hang on to it.
Once he shouted. The sound was lost and noth-
ing came back.
The way led along a knife edge, on the left a
sheer flat slide of rock, on the right bottomless
empty gray nothingness. The wind cut cold across
it. Then the path climbed the face of the rock
again.
He began to hurry; he had reached a decision.
He could not hope to emulate the serene, eternal
certainty of the old tree — he was not built for it.
Nor was he built, he felt sure, for the life he knew.
No need to go back to it, no need to face it out
with Hamilton nor McFee, whichever won their
deadly game. Here was a good place, a place to
die with cleanly dignity.
There was a clear drop of a thousand meters
down the face of the rock.
He reached the top at last and paused, a little
breathless from his final exertion. He was ready
and the place was ready — when he saw that he was
not alone. There was another figure, prone, rest-
ing on elbows, looking out at the emptiness.
He turned, and was about to leave. His resolu-
tion was shaken by the little fact of another’s pres-
ence. He felt nakedly embarrassed.
Then she turned and looked at him. Her gaze
was friendly and unsurprised. He recognized her
— without surprise, and was surprised that he had
not been. He saw that she recognized him.
“Oh, hello,” he said stupidly.
"Come sit down,” she answered.
He accepted silently, and squatted beside her.
She said nothing more at the time, but remained
resting on one elbow, watching him — not narrowly,
but with easy quietness. He liked it. She gave
out warmth, as the redwoods did.
Presently she spoke. “I intended to speak to
you after the dance. You were unhappy.”
“Yes. Yes, that is true."
“You are not unhappy now."
“No," he found himself saying and realized with
a small shock that it was true. “No, I am happy
now.”
They were silent again. She seemed to have no
need for small speech, nor for restless movement.
He felt calmed by her manner himself, but his
own calm was not as deep. “What were you doing
here?” he asked.
"Nothing. Waiting for you, perhaps." The an-
swer was not logical, but it pleased him.
Presently the wind became more chill and the
fog a deeper gray. They started down. The way
seemed shorter this time. He made a show of
helping her, and she accepted it, although she was
more sure-footed than he and they both knew it.
Then they were on the floor of the forest and there
was no further excuse to touch her hand or arm.
They encountered a group of mule-deer; a five-
point buck who glanced at them and returned to
the serious business of eating, his dignity undis-
turbed, two does who accepted them with the calm
assurance of innocence long protected, and three
fawns. The does were passively friendly, but en-
joyed being scratched, especially behind the ears.
The fawns were skittishly curious. They
crowded around, stepping on their feet and nuz-
zling their clothes, then would skitter away in sud-
den alarm at an unexpected movement, their great
soft ears flopping foolishly.
The girl offered them leaves plucked from a
shrub, and laughed when her fingers were nibbled.
Monroe-Alpha tried it and had to grin — the nib-
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
61
bling tickled. He would have liked to have wiped
his fingers, but noticed that she did not, and re-
frained.
He felt a compulsion to unburden himself to her,
as they walked along, and tried to, stumblingly.
He stopped long before he had made himself clear,
and looked at her, half expecting to see disgusted
disapproval in her eyes. There was none.
“I don’t know what it is you have done,” she
said, “but you haven’t been bad. Foolish, perhaps,
but not bad." She stopped, looked a little puzzled,
and added reflectively, “I’ve never met any bad
people.”
He tried later to describe some of the ideals of
the Survivors Club. He spoke of the plans for
dealing with the control naturals as being the
easiest and clearest to explain. No inhumanity, a
bare minimum of necessary coercion, a free choice
between a simple sterilizing operation and a trip to
the future — all this in the greater interest of the
race. He spoke of these things as something that
might be done if the people were wise enough to
accept it.
She shook her head. “I don’t think I would care
for it,” she said gently, but with clear finality. He
dropped the subject.
He was surprised when it became dark. “I sup-
pose we should hurry on to the lodge,” he said.
“The lodge is closed.” That was true, he remem-
bered. The Park was closed; they were not sup-
posed to be there. He started to ask her if she had
a skycar there, or had she come up through the
tunnel, but checked himself. Either way, she
would be leaving him. He did not want that; he
himself was not pressed for time — his forty-eight
hours would not be up until the morrow. "I saw
some cabins as I came this way,” he suggested.
They found them, nestling half hidden in a hol-
low. They were unfurnished and quite evidently
out of service, but strong and weather-tight. He
rummaged around in the cupboards and found a
little glow-heater with more than enough charge
showing on its dial for their needs. Water there
was, but no food. It did not matter.
There were not even cushion beds available, but
the floor was warm and clean. She lay down,
seemed to nestle out a bed in the floor as an animal
might, said, “Good night,” and closed her eyes. He
believed that she went to sleep at once.
He expected to find it hard to get to sleep, but he
dozed off before he had time to worry about it.
When he awoke it was with a sense of well-being
such as he had not enjoyed in many days — months.
He did not attempt to analyze it at once, but sim-
ply savored it, wallowed in it, stretching luxuri-
ously while his soul fitted itself, catlike, back into
its leasehold.
Then he caught sight of her face, across the
cabin floor, and knew why he felt cheerful. She
was still asleep, her head cradled on the curve of
her arm. Bright sun flooded in through the win-
dow and illuminated her face. It was, he decided,
not necessarily a beautiful face, although he could
find no fault with it. Its charm lay more in a
childlike quality, a look of fresh wonder, as if she
greeted each new experience as truly new and
wholly delightful — so different, he thought, from
the jaundiced melancholy he had suffered from.
Had suffered from. For he realized that her en-
thusiasm was infectious, that he had caught it, and
that he owed his present warm elation to her pres-
ence.
He decided not to wake her. He had much to
think of, anyhow, before he was ready to talk with
another. He saw now that his troubles of yester-
day had been sheer funk. McFee was a careful
commander; if McFee saw fit to leave him off the
firing line, he should not complain or question.
“The Whole was greater than the parts.” McFee’s
decision was probably inspired by Felix, anyway —
from the best of intentions.
Good old Felix! Misguided, but a good sort
anyhow. He would have to see if he couldn’t in-
tercede for Hamilton, in the reconstruction. They
could not afford to hold grudges — the New Order
had no place for small personal emotions. Logic
and science.
There would be much to be done and he could
still be useful. The next phase started today —
rounding up control naturals, giving them their
choice of two humane alternatives. Questioning
public officials of every sort and determining
whether or not they were temperamentally suited
to continue to serve under the New Order. Oh,
there was much to be done — he wondered why he
had felt yesterday that there was no place for him.
Had he been as skilled in psychologies as he was
in mathematics he might possibly have recognized
his own pattern for what it was — religious enthu-
siasm, the desire to be a part of a greater whole
and to surrender one’s own little worries to the
keeping of an over-being. He had been told, no
doubt, in his early instruction, that revolutionary
political movements and crusading religions were
the same type-form process, differing only in ver-
bal tags and creeds, but he had never experienced
either one before. In consequence, he failed to
recognize what had happened to him. Religious
frenzy? What nonsense — he believed himself to
be an extremely hard-headed agnostic.
She opened her eyes, saw him and smiled, with-
out moving. “Good morning,” she said.
“Good morning,” he agreed. “I neglected to ask
your name yesterday.”
“My name is Marion,” she answered. “What’s
yours?”
“I am Monroe-Alpha Clifford.”
“Monroe-Alpha,” she mused. “That’s a good
line, Clifford. I suppose you — ” She got no fur-
62
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
ther with her remark ; her expression was suddenly
surprised, she made two gasping quick intakes of
breath, buried her face in her hands, and sneezed
convulsively.
Monroe-Alpha sat up abruptly, at once alert and
no longer happy. She? Impossible!
But he faced the first test of his new-found reso-
lution firmly. It was going to be damned unpleas-
ant, he realized, but he had to do it. “The Whole
is greater than the parts."
He even derived unadmitted melancholy satis-
faction from the realization that he could do his
duty, no matter how painful. “You sneezed," he
said accusingly.
“It was nothing,” she said hastily. “Dust . . .
dust and the sunshine.”
“Your voice is thick. Your nose is stopped up.
Tell me the truth. You’re a ‘natural’ — aren’t you?"
“You don’t understand," she protested. “I’m a
... oh, dear!” She sneezed twice in rapid succes-
sion, then left her head bowed.
Monroe-Alpha bit his lip. “I hate this as much
as you do," he said, “but I’m bound to assume that
you are a control natural until you prove the con-
trary."
“Why?”
“I tried to explain to you yesterday. I’ve got to
take you in to the Provisional Committee — what
I was talking about is already an established fact."
She did not answer him. She just looked. It made
him still more uncomfortable. “Come now," he
said. “No need to be tragic about it. You won’t
have to enter the stasis. A simple, painless opera-
tion that leaves you unchanged — no disturbance of
your endocrine balance at all. Besides, there may
be no need for it. Let me see your tattoo."
Still she did not answer. He drew his gun and
leveled it at her. “Don’t trifle with me. I mean
it.” He lowered his sights and pinged the floor
just in front of her. She flinched back from the
burnt wood and the little puff of smoke. “If you
force me, I'll burn you. I’m not joking. Let me
see your tattoo.”
When still she made no move, he got up, went to
her, grabbed her roughly by the arm, dragging her
to her feet. “Let’s see your tattoo.”
She hesitated, then shrugged her shoulders. “All
right — but you’ll be sorry !” She lifted her left arm.
As he lowered his head to read the figures tattooed
near the armpit she brought her hand down sharply
near the wrist joint of his right hand. At the same
instant her right fist made a painful surprise in the
pit of his stomach.
He dropped his gun.
He dived after the gun before it had clattered to
a stop, and was up after her. But she was already
gone. The cabin door stood open, framing a pic-
ture of sugar pines and redwoods, but no human
figure. A blue jay cursed and made a flicker of
blue; nothing else moved.
Monroe-Alpha leaped to the door and looked
both ways, covering the same arc with his weapon,
but the Giant Forest had swallowed her. She was
somewhere close at hand, of course ; her flight had
disturbed the jay. But where? Behind which of
fifty trees? Had there been snow on the ground
he would have known, but the snow had vanished,
except for bedraggled hollows, and the pine needle
carpet of an evergreen forest left no tracks per-
ceptible to his untrained eye — nor was it cluttered
with undergrowth to impede and disclose her
flight.
He cast around uncertainly like a puzzled hound.
He caught a movement from the corner of his eye,
turned, saw a flash of white, and fired instantly.
He had hit — that was sure. His target had fallen
behind a baby pine which blocked his view,
thrashed once, and was quiet. He went toward the
little tree with reluctant steps, intending to finish
her off mercifully if, by chance, his first bolt had
merely mutilated her.
It was not she, but a mule-deer fawn. His
charge had burnt away half the rump and pene-
trated far up into the vitals. The movement he
had seen and heard could have been no more than
dying reflex. Its eyes were wide open, deer soft,
and seemed to him to be fiHed with gentle re-
proach. He turned away at once, feeling a little
sick. It was the first nonhuman animal he had ever
killed.
He spent only a few minutes more searching for
her. His sense of duty he quieted by telling him-
self that she stood no chance of getting away here
in a mountain forest anyhow, infected, as he knew
her to be, with a respiratory ailment. She would
have to give up and turn herself in.
Monroe-Alpha did not return to the cabin. He
had left nothing there, anl he assumed that the
little glow-heater which had kept them warm
through the night was equipped with automatic
cut-off. If not, no matter — it did not occur to him
to weigh his personal convenience against the
waste involved. He went at once to the parking
lot underground where he found his runabout,
climbed in, and started its impeller. There was
an immediate automatic response from the Park’s
signal system, evidenced by glowing letters on the
runabout’s annunciator: NO CRUISING OVER
GIANT FOREST— ANGLE THREE THOU-
SAND AND SCRAMBLE. He obeyed without
realizing it; his mind was not on the conning of
the little car.
His mind was not on anything in particular.
The lethargy, the bitter melancholy, which had
enervated him before the beginning of the Re-
j adjustment, descended on him with renewed force.
For what good? To what purpose was this blind
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
63
senseless struggle to stay alive, to breed, to fight?
He drove the little capsule as fast as its impeller
would shove it straight for the face of Mount
Whitney, with an unreasoned half-conscious inten-
tion of making an ending there and then.
But the runabout was not built to crash. With
the increase in speed the co-pilot extended the
range of its feelers; the klystrons informed the
tracker; solenoids chattered briefly and the car
angled over the peak.
VIII.
As he turned his back on the lifting runabout
into which he had shanghaied Monroe-Alpha,
Hamilton dismissed his friend from his mind —
much to do and damned little time. Hurry I
He was surprised and not pleased to find that
the door giving down into the building from the
roof responded at once to the code used by the
clinic staff — a combination Mordan had given him.
Nor were there guards beyond the door. Why, the
place might as well be wide open!
He burst into Mordan’s office with the fact on
his mind. “This place is as unprotected as a
church,” he snapped. “What’s the idea?" He
looked around. In addition to Mordan the room
contained Bainbridge Martha, his chief of techni-
cal staff, and Longcourt Phyllis. His surprise at
Phyllis’ presence was reinforced by annoyance at
seeing she was armed.
“Good evening, Felix,” Mordan answered mildly.
“Why should it be protected?”
“Good grief! Aren’t you going to resist at-
tack?”
“But,” Mordan pointed out, “there is no reason
to expect attack. This is not a strategic point. No
doubt they plan to take the clinic over later but
the fighting will be elsewhere.”
“That’s what you think. I know better.”
“Yes?”
“I was assigned to come here to kill you. A sec-
tion follows me to seize the clinic.”
Mordan made no comment. He sat still, face im-
passive. Hamilton started to speak; Mordan
checked him with a raised hand. Twenty seconds
later he said, “There are only three other men in
the building besides ourselves. None of them are
gunmen. How much time have we?”
“Ten minutes — or less.”
“I’ll inform the central peace station. They may
be able to divert a few reserve monitors. Martha,
send the staff home.” He turned to the telephone.
The lighting flickered sharply, was replaced at
once by a lesser illumination. The emergency
lighting had cut in. No one needed to be told that
Power Central was out. Mordan continued to the
phone — it was dead.
“The building cannot be held by two guns,” he
observed, as if thinking aloud. “Nor is it neces-
sary. There is just one point necessary to protect
the plasm bank. Our friends are not completely
stupid, but it is still bad strategy. They forget
that a trapped animal will gnaw off a leg. Come,
Felix. We must attempt it.”
The significance of the attack on the clinic raced
through Hamilton’s mind. The plasm bank. The
one here in the Capital’s clinic was repository of
the plasm of genius for the past two centuries. If
the rebels captured it, even if they did not win,
they would have a unique and irreplaceable hos-
tage. At the worst they could exchange it for
their lives.”
"What do you mean, ‘two guns’?” demanded
Longcourt Phyllis. “What about this?” She
slapped her belt.
“I daren’t risk you,” Mordan answered. “You
know why."
Their eyes locked for a moment. She answered
with two words. “Fleming Marjorie."
“Hm-m-m. I see your point. Very well.”
"What’s she doing here, anyhow?” demanded
Hamilton. “And who is Fleming Marjorie?”
"Phyllis came here to talk with me — about you.
Fleming Marjorie is another fifth cousin of yours.
Quite a good chart. Come!” He started away
briskly.
Hamilton hurried after him, thinking furiously.
The significance of Mordan's last remarks broke
on him with a slightly delayed action. When he
understood he was considerably annoyed, but there
was no time to talk about it. He avoided looking
at Phyllis.
Bainbridge Martha joined them as they were
leaving the room. “One of the girls Is passing the
word,” she informed Mordan.
"Good," he answered without pausing.
The plasm bank stood by itself in the middle of
a large room, a room three stories high and broad
in proportion. The bank itself was arranged in
librarylike tiers. A platform divided it halfway
up, from which technicians could reach the cells in
the upper level.
Mordan went directly to the flight of stairs in
the center of the mass and climbed to the platform.
"Phyllis and I will cover the two front doors,” he
directed. “Felix, you will cover the rear door.”
"What about me?” asked his chief of staff.
"You, Martha? You’re not a gunman.”
“There’s another gun,” she declared, pointing at
Hamilton’s belt. Hamilton glanced down, puzzled.
She was right. He had stuffed the gun he had
taken from Monroe-Alpha under his belt. He
handed it to her.
“Do you know how to use it?” asked Mordan.
“It will burn where I point it, won’t it?”
“Yes.”
“That’s all I want to know.”
"Very well. Phyllis, you and Martha cover the
back door. Felix and I will take a front door
apiece.”
64
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
The balcony platform was surrounded by a rail-
ing, waist high and not quite one solid piece, for it
was pierced here and there with small openings —
part of an ornamental design. The plan was quite
simple — crouch behind the railing, spy out the
doors through the openings and use them as loop-
holes through which to fire.
They waited.
Hamilton got out a cigarette with one hand,
stuck it in his mouth and inhaled it into burning,
without taking his eyes off the left-hand door. He
offered the case to Mordan, who pushed it away.
“Claude, there’s one thing I can’t figure out — ”
“So?”
“Why in the world the government didn't bust
this up before it had gone so far. I gather that I
wasn't the only stoolie in the set-up. Why didn’t
you smear it?”
“I am not the government,” Mordan answered
carefully, “nor am I on the Policy Board. I might
venture an opinion.”
“Let’s have it."
“The only certain way to get all the conspirators
was to wait until they showed themselves. Nor
will it be necessary to try them — an unsatisfactory
process at best. This way they will be extermi-
nated to the last man."
Hamilton thought about it. “It does not seem to
me that the policy makers are justified in risking
the whole State by delaying.”
“Policy makers take a long view of things. Bio-
logically it is better to make sure that the purge
is clean. But the issue was never in doubt, Felix."
“How can you be sure? We're in a sweet spot
now, as a result of waiting.”
“You and I are in jeopardy, to be sure. But the
society will live. It will take a little time for the
monitors to recruit enough militia to subdue them
in any key points they may have seized, but the
outcome is certain."
“Damnation!” complained Hamilton. “It
shouldn't be necessary to wait to stir up volunteers
among the citizens. The police force should be
large enough.”
“No,” said Mordan. “No, I don’t think so. The
police of a State should never be stronger or bet-
ter armed than the citizenry. An armed citizenry,
willing to fight, is the foundation of civil freedom.
That’s a personal evaluation, of course.”
“But suppose they don’t? Suppose these rats
win? It’s the Policy Board’s fault.”
Mordan shrugged. “If the rebellion is success-
ful, notwithstanding an armed citizenry, then it
has justified itself — biologically. By the way, be
a little slow in shooting, if the first man comes
through your door.”
“Why?"
“Your weapon is noisy. If he is alone, we’ll gain
a short delay.”
They waited. Hamilton was beginning to think
that his timepiece had stopped, until he realized
that his first cigarette was still burning. He
glanced quickly back at his door, and said, "Pssst!"
to Mordan, and shifted his watching to the other
door.
The man entered cautiously, weapon high. Mor-
dan led him with his gunsight until he was well
inside and had stepped out of direct line of sight
of the door. Then he let him have it, neatly, in the
head. Mordan glanced at him, and noticed that it
was a man he had had a drink with earlier in the
evening.
The next two came in a pair. Mordan motioned
for him not to shoot. He was not able to wait so
long this time; they saw the body as soon as they
were in the doorway. Hamilton noted with ad-
miration that he was unable to tell which one had
been shot first. They seemed to drop simultane-
ously.
"You need not honor my fire next time,” Mordan
remarked. “The element of surprise will be lack-
ing.” Over his shoulder he called, “First blood,
ladies. Anything doing there?"
"Not yet.”
"Here they come !” Ba-bang! Bang! Hamilton
had fired three times, winged three men. One of
them stirred, attempted to raise himself and return
the fire. He let him have one more bullet, which
quieted him. “Thank you," said Mordan.
“For what?"
“That wasrny file secretary. But I would rather
have killed him myself.”
Hamilton cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think
you once told me that a public official should try
to keep his personal feelings out of his work?"
“That’s true — but there is no rule saying I can't
enjoy my work. I wish he had come in my door.
I liked him."
Hamilton noted that Mordan had accounted for
four more, silently, while Hamilton was so noisily
stopping the rush at his own door. That made five
at his door, one in between, and four at Mordan’s.
“If they keep this up, they’ll have a barricade of
living flesh,” he commented.
“Formerly living,” Mordan corrected. “Haven't
you been at that same loophole a bit too long?”
“I stand corrected on both counts.” He shifted
to another spot, then called back, “How is it com-
ing, girls?"
“Martha got one,” Phyllis sang out.
"Good for her! What’s the matter with you?”
“I’m doing all right."
“Fine. Burn ’em so they don't wiggle.”
“They don’t,” she stated briefly.
There were no more rushes, A portion of a head
would peek out cautiously, its owner would blast
once quickly without proper aim, the man would
BEYOND THIS HORIZON—
duck back. They returned the fire, but with lit-
tle expectation of hitting anything. The targets
never appeared twice in the same spot, and for
split seconds only. They crept back and forth
along the balcony, trying to enfilade the rooms be-
yond, but their antagonists had become cagy.
“Claude — I just thought of something funny.”
"So?"
“Suppose I get killed in this. You get your own
way in our argument, don’t you?"
"Yes. What’s the joke?”
“But if I get knocked over, you’ll probably be
dead, too. You told me my deposit was listed only
in your mind. You win and you lose."
"Not exactly. I said it was not on file. But it's
identified in my will — my professional executor
will carry out the plan."
“Oho. So I’m a papa anyhow." He fired once
at a shape that suddenly appeared in his door.
There was a yelp of anguish, and the shape drew
back. “Lousy," he deplored. “I must be losing my
eyesight." He banked a slug off the floor in front
of his door, letting it thereby ricochet loosely in
the room beyond. He did the same through Mor-
dan’s door. “That’s to teach ’em to keep their
heads down. Look, Claude — if you had your
choice, which would you prefer: For both of us
to be knocked over and thereby insure your own
way about my hypothetical offspring, or for both
of us to get through it and be back where we
started?"
Mordan considered the question. "I think I
would rather try to argue you around to my view-
point. I'm afraid there isn’t much of the martyr
spirit in me."
"That’s what I thought."
Somewhat later Mordan said, “Felix, I think
they have taken to drawing our fire. I don't think
that was a face I shot at last time.”
"I believe you’re right. I couldn’t have missed
a couple of times lately."
"How many shots have you left?”
Hamilton did not need to count; he knew — and
it had been worrying him. He had four clips when
he left for the Hall of the Wolf — three in his belt,
one in his gun, twenty-eight shots in all. The fast
clip was in his gun; he had fired two shots from it.
He held up one hand, fingers spread. "How about
yourself?"
“About the same. I could use half charge for
this sparring." He thought a moment. "Cover
both doors.” He crawled rapidly away through the
stacks to where the two women kept guard on the
rear door.
Martha heard him and turned. “Look at this,
chief,” she insisted, holding out her left hand. He
looked — the first two joints of the forefinger were
burned away and the tip of the thumb — cleanly
cauterized. “Isn’t that a mess?" she complained.
65
“I’ll never be able to operate again. No manipu-
lation.”
"Your assistants can operate. It’s your brain
that counts.”
“A lot you know about it. They're clumsy —
every blessed one of them. It's a miracle they can
dress themselves.”
“I'm sorry. How many charges have you left F’’
The picture was no better here. Phyllis’ lady’s
weapon had been only a twenty-gun to start with.
Both Mordan's and Monroe-Alpha’s were fifty-
guns, but the gun expropriated from Monroe-
Alpha had started the evening even more depleted
than Mordan’s. Phyllis had withdrawn Martha
from anything more than stand-by when she had
been wounded, planning to use the gun herself
when her own was exhausted.
Mordan cautioned them to be still more economi-
cal with their shooting and returned to his post.
“Anything happened?” he asked.
"No. What’s the situation?"
Mordan told him.
Hamilton whistled tunelessly, his eye on his tar-
get. “Claude?"
“Yes, Felix."
“Do you think we are going to get out of this?"
“No, Felix."
“Hm-m-m. Well, it's been a nice party." A
little later he added, “Damn it— I don’t want to
die. Not just yet.”
“Claude, I've thought of another joke.”
“Let’s have it.”
"What's the one thing that could give life point
to it — real point?”
"That," Mordan pointed out, “is the question
I've been trying to answer for you all along.”
"No, no. The question itself."
“You state it,” Mordan parried cautiously.
"I will. The one thing that could give us some
real basis for our living is to know for sure
whether or not anything happens after we die.
When we die, do we die all over — or don’t we?"
“Hm-m-m — granting your point, what's the
joke?”
“The joke is on me. Or rather on my kid. In
a few minutes I’ll probably know the answer. But
he won’t. He’s sitting back there right now — in
a way — sleeping in one of those freezers. And
there is no way on earth for me to let him know
the answer. But he’s the one that will need to
know. Isn't that funny?” ,
“Hm-m-m. If that’s your idea of a joke, Felix,
I suggest that you stick to parlor tricks.”
Hamilton shrugged jauntily. “I’m considered
quite a wit in some circles,” he bragged. “Some-
times I wow myself.”
“Here they come!” It was an organized rush
this time, spreading fanwise from both doors.
66
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
They were both very busy for perhaps two sec-
onds, then it was over. “Any get through?”
“Two, I think,” Mordan answered. “You cover
the stairs. I’ll stay here.” It was not personal
caution, but tactics. Mordan’s eye and hand were
fast, but Hamilton was the younger, abler man.
He watched the stairs on his belly, most of his
body shielded by the stacks. He was lucky on the
first shot — his man stuck his head up facing the
other way. Hamilton sent him down with a hole
in the back of his skull and his forehead blown
away. He then shifted quickly to the far side of
the stair well. But his gun was empty.
The second man came up fast. Hamilton slugged
him with the empty weapon and grappled, trying
to get inside his range. The man almost fought
free, dragging them both part way into the stair-
case, but Hamilton jerked back on his head. hard.
There was a crunch of bone; he went limp.
Hamilton reported back to Mordan.
“Good. Where’s your gun?” Hamilton shrugged
and spread his palms. “There ought to be a couple
o’ guns at the foot of the stairs,” he suggested.
“You wouldn’t last long enough to stoop over
for them. You stay up here. Go back and get
Martha’s."
“Yes, sir."
He crawled back, explained what he wanted, and
told Martha to hide in the stacks. She protested.
"Chief's orders," he lied. Then to Phyllis, “How
are you doing, kid?"
“All right."
“Keep your chin up and your head down." He
glanced at the meters on both guns. They had the
same charge. He holstered Monroe-Alpha’s gun,
shot a quick look at the door Phyllis was covering,
then grabbed her chin, turned her face around, and
kissed her quickly.
“That’s for keeps,” he said, and turned away at
once.
Mordan reported no activity. "But there will
be," he added. “We don’t dare waste shots on
casual targets and they will soon realize it.”
It seemed an interminable wait. They grimly
forbore accepting the targets they were offered.
“I think," said Mordan at last, “that we had better
expend one charge on the next thing that appears.
It might cause a worth-while delay."
“You don’t have any silly notion that we are go-
ing to get out of this now, do you? I’ve begun to
suspect that the monitors don’t even know this
point was attacked."
“You may be right. But we’ll keep on.”
“Oh, of course."
They had a target soon — plain enough to be sure
that it was a man, and not a decoy. Mordan stung
him. He fell in sight, but shots were scarce — he
was allowed to crawl painfully back out of range.
Hamilton looked up for a moment. “See here,
Claude — it would be worth-while, you know — to
know what happens after the lights go out. Why
hasn’t anyone tackled it seriously?"
“Religions do. Philosophies do.”
“That isn’t what I mean. It ought to be tackled
the same as any other — ” He stopped. “Do you
smell anything?"
Mordan sniffed. “I'm not sure. What does it
smell like?"
“Sweetish. It — ” He felt suddenly dizzy, a
strange sensation for him. He saw two of Mor-
dan. “Gas. They've got us. So long, pal.” He
tried to crawl to the passageway down which
Phyllis was on duty, but he achieved only a couple
of clumsy, crawling steps, fell on his face, and lay
still.
IX.
It was pleasant to be dead. Pleasant and peace-
ful, not monotonous. But a little bit lonely. He
missed those others — serene Mordan, the dauntless
gallantry of Phyllis, Cliff and his frozen face.
And there was that funny little man, pathetic little
man who ran the Milky Way Bar — what had he
named him? He could see his face, but what had
he named him? Herbie, Herbert, something like
that — names didn’t taste the same when words
were gone. Why had he named him Herbert?
Never mind. Next time he would not choose to
be a mathematician. Dull, tasteless stuff, mathe-
matics — quite likely to give the game away before
it was played out. No fun in the game if you knew
the outcome. He had designed a game like that
once, and called it “Futility" — no matter how you
played, you had to win. No, that wasn’t himself,
that was a player called Hamilton. Himself wasn’t
Hamilton — not this game. He was a geneticist —
that was a good one! — a game within a game.
Change the rules as you go along. Move the
players around. Play tricks on yourself;
"Don’t you peek and close your eyes,
And I’ll give you something to make a s’prise!"
That was the essence of the game — surprise.
You locked up your memory, and promised not to
look, then played through the part you had picked
with just the rules assigned to that player. Some-
times the surprises were pretty ghastly though —
he didn’t like having his fingers burned off.
No! He hadn't played that position at all. That
piece was an automatic, some of the pieces had to
be. Himself had burned off that piece's fingers,
though it seemed real at the time.
It was always like this on first waking up. It
was always a little hard to remember which posi-
tion himself had played, forgetting that he had
played all of the parts. Well, that was the game;
it was the only game in town, and there was noth-
ing else to do. Could he help it if the game was
crooked? Even if he had made it up and played
all the parts.
BEYOND THIS HORIZON—
But he would think up another game next time.
Next time —
His eyes didn’t work right. They were open
but he couldn’t see anything. A hell of a way to
run things — some mistake.
“Hey! What’s going on here?”
It was his own voice. He sat up, the cloth fell
from his eyes. Everything was too bright; his
eyes smarted.
"What’s the trouble, Felix?” He turned in the
direction of the voice and strove to focus his ach-
ing eyes. It was Mordan, lying a few feet away.
There was something he wanted to ask Mordan,
but it escaped him.
“Oh. Claude. I don’t feel right. How long
have we been dead?”
“We aren’t dead. You’re just a bit sick. You’ll
get over it-”
“Sick? Is that what it is?”
“Yes. I was sick once, about thirty years ago.
It was much like this.”
“Oh — ” There was still something he wanted to
ask Mordan, but he couldn't for the life of him re-
call what it was. It was important, too, and Claude
would know. Claude knew everything — he made
the rules.
That was silly! Still, Claude would know.
“Do you want to know what happened?” Mor-
dan asked.
Maybe that was it. “They gassed us. didn't
they? I don’t remember anything after that.”
That wasn’t quite right — there was something
else. He wouldn’t recall.
“We were gassed, but it was done by our own
monitors. Through the conditioning system. We
were lucky. No one knew we were under siege
inside, but they could not be sure that all of the
staff were out of the building — else they would
have used a lethal gas.”
His head was clearing now. He remembered the
fight in detail. “So? How many were left? How
many did we fail to get?”
“I don’t know exactly, and it’s probably too late
to find out. They are probably all dead.”
“Dead? Why? They didn’t burn them after
they were down, did they?”
“No. But this gas we took is lethal without an
immediate antidote — and I'm afraid that the thera-
pists were a little bit overworked. Our own people
came first.”
Hamilton grinned. “You old hypocrite. Sayf
How about Phyllis?"
“She's all right, and so is Martha. I ascertained
that when I woke up. By the way, do you know
that you snore?”
“Do I, really?"
"Outrageously. I listened to your music for
more than an hour. You must have had a heavier
AST — SE
dose of gas than I had. Perhaps you struggled."
“Maybe. I wouldn’t know. Say, where are we?”
He swung his legs out of bed, and attempted to
stand. It was a foolish attempt; he just missed
falling on his face.
“Lie down," ordered Mordan. “You won't be fit
for several hours yet."
“I guess you’re right,” Hamilton admitted, sink-
ing back on the cushion. “Say, that's a funny feel-
ing. I thought I was going to fly."
“We’re next door to the Carstairs Infirmary, in
a temporary annex,” Mordan continued. “Natu-
rally, things are a bit crowded today.”
"Is the party all over? Did we win?"
“Of course we won. I told you the issue waB
never in doubt.”
“I know you did, but I've never understood your
confidence.”
Mordan considered how to reply to this. “Per-
haps,” he said, “it would be simplest to state that
they never did have what it takes. The leaders
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
were, in most cases, genetically poor types, with
conceit far exceeding their abilities. I doubt if
any one of them had sufficient imagination to
conceive logically the complexities of running a
society, even the cut-to-measure society they
dreamed of.”
"They talked as if they did."
Mordan nodded. "No doubt. It’s a common fal-
lacy and it has been with the race as long as the
race has had social organization. A little business-
man thinks his tiny business is as complex and dif-
ficult as the whole government. By inversion, he
conceives himself as competent to plan the govern-
ment as the chief executive. Going further back
in history, I’ve no doubt that many a peasant
thought the job of the king was a simple one and
that he could do it better if he only had the chance.
What it boils down to is lack of imagination and
overwhelming conceit.”
“I would never have thought them lacking in im-
agination."
“There is a difference between constructive im-
agination and wild, uncontrolled daydreams. The
latter is psychopathic — megalomania — unable to
distinguish between fact and fancy. The other is
hard-headed. In any case, the fact remains that
they did not have a single competent scientist, nor
a synthesist of any sort, in their whole organiza-
tion. I venture to predict that, when we get
around to reviewing their records, we will find that
the rebels were almost all — all, perhaps — men who
had never been outstandingly successful at any-
thing. Theit-only prominence was among them-
jsel
Hamilton thought this over to himself. He had
noticed something of the sort. They had seemed
like thwarted men. He had not recognized a face
among them as being anyone in particular outside
the Survivors Club. But inside the club they were
swollen with self-importance, planning this, decid-
ing that, talking about what they would do when
they “took over." Pipsqueaks, the lot of ’em.
But dangerous pipsqueaks, no matter what Mor-
dan said. You were just as dead, burned by a
childish man, as you would be if another killed
you.
"Felix, are you still awake?”
“Yes.”
"Do you recall the conversation we were having
during the fight?"
“Why, um . . . yes . . . yes, I think I do.”
“You were about to say something when the gas
hit us."
Hamilton was slow in replying. He recalled
what had been on his mind but it was difficult to
fit it into adequate words. “It’s like this, Claude.
It seems to me that scientists tackle every prob-
lem but the important ones. What a man wants
to know is ‘Why?’ — all that science tells him is
‘What.’ ”
“ ‘Why’ isn’t the business of science. Scientists
observe, describe, hypothecate, and predict. ‘What’
and ‘How’ is their whole field; ‘Why’ doesn’t en-
ter it."
"Why shouldn’t ‘Why’ enter into it? I don’t
want to know how far it is from here to the Sun;
I want to know why the Sun is there — and why
I am standing here looking at it. I ask what life
is for, and they show me a way to make better
bread.”
"Food is important. Try going without it.”
“Food isn’t important after you've solved that
problem."
“Were you ever hungry?"
"Once — when I was studying basic socio-eco-
nomics. But it was just instructional. I never ex-
pect to be hungry again — and neither does any-
body else. That’s a solved problem and it answers
nothing. I want to know ‘What next? Whereto?
What for?’ ”
“I had been thinking about these matters," Mor-
dan said slowly, "while you were sleeping. The
problems of philosophy seem to be unlimited, and
it is not too healthy to dwell on unlimited ques-
tions. But last night you seemed to feel that the
key problem, for you, was the old, old question as
to whether a man was anything more than his hun-
dred years here on earth? Do you still feel that
way?"
“Yes — I think I do. If there was anything, any-
thing more at all, after this crazy mix-up we call
living, I could feel that there might be some point
to the whole frantic business, even if I did not
know and could not know the full answer while
I was alive.”
“And suppose there was not? Suppose that
when a man’s body disintegrates, he himself dis-
appears absolutely. I’m bound to say I find it a
probable hypothesis."
"Well — It wouldn’t be cheerful knowledge, but
it would be better than not knowing. You could
plan your life rationally, at least. A man might
even be able to get a certain amount of satisfaction
in planning things better for the future, after he’s
gone. A vicarious pleasure in the anticipation.”
“I assure you he can,” Mordan stated, from his
own inner knowledge. "But, I take it, either way,
you would feel that the question you posed to me
in our first interview was fairly answered.”
“Mm-m-m, yes.”
"Whereupon you would be willing to co-operate
in the genetics program planned for you?”
“Yes. if."
“I don’t propose to give you an answer here and
now," Mordan answered equably. "Would you be
willing to co-operate if you knew that a serious
attempt was being made to answer your question?”
"Easy there! Wait a minute. You-win-and-I-
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
69
lose. I ought to be entitled to look at the answer.
Suppose you do assign someone to look into the
matter and he comes back with a negative report
— after I’ve fulfilled my part of the bargain?”
“It would be necessary for you to place credence
in me. Such a research might not be completed in
years, or in our lifetimes. But suppose I declare
to you that such a research were to be attempted,
seriously, hard-headedly, all out, and no trouble
spared, would you then consent to co-operate?”
Hamilton covered his face with his hands. There
were myriad factors revolving in his brain — of
some of which he was not fully aware, none of
which he wished to talk about. “If you did . . .
if you did — I think perhaps — "
“Here, here,” a voice boomed in the room.
“What’s going on in here? Mustn’t excite your-
selves yet.”
"Hello, Joseph,” Mordan greeted the newcomer.
“Morning, Claude. Feel better?”
"Much.”
“You still need sleep. Put yourself to sleep.”
"Very well." Mordan closed his eyes.
The man called Joseph stepped up to Felix, felt
his wrist, peeled back his eyelid, and examined the
eye. “You’ll do.”
“I want to get up."
“Not yet. I want you to sleep for a few hours
first. Look at me. You feel sleepy. You — ”
Felix tore his gaze away from the man’s eyes
and said, “Claude!”
“He's asleep. You can’t possibly wake him.”
“Oh. See here, you’re a therapist, aren't you?"
"Certainly.”
“Is there anything that can be done to cure snor-
ing?”
The man chuckled. “All I can suggest is that
you sleep through it. Which is what I want you
to do now. You are sleepy. You are falling
asleep. Sleep — ”
When they let him go he tried to look up Phyllis.
It was difficult to find her, to begin with, since the
meager hospital accommodations of the city were
overcrowded and she had been ministered to, as
he had been, in temporary quarters. When he did
find her, they wouldn’t let him in — she was sleep-
ing, they said. Nor were they inclined to give him
any information as to her condition; he could show
no claim on such knowledge and it was clearly in
the private sphere.
He made such a nuisance of himself that he was
finally told that she was entirely well, save for a
slight indisposition pursuant to gas poisoning. He
had to be contented with that.
He might have gotten himself into serious trou-
ble had he been dealing with a man, but his argu-
ment was with a grimly inflexible matron, who was
about twice as tough as he was.
He had the faculty of dismissing from mind that
which could not be helped. Phyllis was not on his
mind once he had turned away. He started for his
apartment automatically, then recalled, for the first
time in a good many hours, Monroe-Alpha.
The fool, the silly fool ! He wondered what had
happened to him. He was reluctant to inquire
since to do so might give away Monroe-Alpha’s
connection with the conspiracy — although it
seemed likely that he had already found some
means to do that himself.
It did not occur to him then, or at any other
time, to “do the honorable thing” by reporting
Monroe-Alpha. His morals were strictly prag-
matic, and conformed to accepted code as closely
as they did only through a shrewd and imaginative
self-interest.
He called Monroe-Alpha's office — no, he was not
there. He called his apartment. No answer. Tem-
porarily blocked, he decided to go to his friend’s
apartment on the assumption that he might show
up there first.
He got no response at the door. He knew the
combination but ordinarily would not think of
using it. This seemed to him an extraordinary oc-
casion.
Monroe-Alpha was sitting in his lounging room.
He looked up when Hamilton entered, but did not
rise and said nothing. Hamilton walked over and
planted himself in front of him. “So you’re back?”
"Yes.”
“How long have you been back?"
“I don’t know. Hours."
“You have? I signaled your phone.”
“Oh, was that you?”
“Certainly it was. Why didn’t you answer?”
Monroe-Alpha said nothing, looked at him dully,
and looked away. “Snap out of it, man,” Hamilton
commanded, by now exasperated. "Come to life.
The putsch failed. You know that, don't you?”
"Yes.” Then he added, “I'm ready.”
“Ready for what?”
"You’ve come to arrest me, haven’t you?”
“Me? Great Egg! I’m no monitor."
"It’s all right. I don’t mind."
"Look here, Cliff," Hamilton said seriously.
“What’s gotten into you? Are you still filled up
with the guff McFee dished out? Are you deter-
mined to be a martyr? You'ye been a fool — there’s
no need to be a damned fool. I’ve reported that
you were an agent of mine." (In this he antici-
pated a decision he had made at the moment; he
would carry it out later — if necessary.) “You’re
all in the clear.
“Well, speak u p. Y ou didn't get in on the fight-
ing, did you?"
“No.”
“I didn’t think you would, after the hypno pills
I stuffed down you. One more and you would have
listened to the birdies. What’s the trouble, then?
70
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Are you still fanatical about this damned Sur-
vivors Club tommyrot?”
“No. That was a mistake. I was crazy.”
“I’ll say you were crazy! But see here — you
don’t rate it, but you’re getting away with it, cold.
You don’t have to worry. Just slide back in where
you were and no one’s the wiser.”
“It’s no good, Felix. Nothing’s any good.
Thanks, just the same,” he 6miled briefly and
wanly.
“Well, for the love o’ — I’ve a good mind to
paste you right in the puss, just to get a rise out
of you." Monroe-Alpha did not answer. His face
he had let sink down into his hands; he showed
in no way that he had even heard. Hamilton shook
his shoulder.
“What's the matter? Did something else hap-
pen? Something I don’t know about?”
“Yes.” It was barely a whisper.
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“It doesn’t matter." But he did start to tell of
it; once started he went on steadily, in a low voice
and without raising his head. He seemed to be
talking only to himself, as if he were repeating
over something he wished to learn by heart.
Hamilton listened uneasily, wondering whether
or not he should stop him. He had never heard
a man bare his secret thoughts as Monroe-Alpha
was doing. It seemed indecent.
But he went on and on, until the whole pitiful,
silly picture was mercilessly sharp. “And so I
came back here,” he concluded at last. He said
nothing further, nor did he look up.
Hamilton looked amazed. “Is that all?”
“Yes.”
“You’re sure you haven’t left out anything?"
“No, of course not.”
“Then what, in the Name of the Egg, are you
doing here?”
“Nothing. There wasn’t any place else to go."
"Cliff, you’ll be the death of me, yet. Get going.
Get started. Get up off that fat thing you're sit-
ting on and get a move on.”
“Huh? Where?"
“After her, you bubble-brained idiot! Go find
her."
Monroe-Alpha shook his head wearily. "You
must not have listened. I tell you I tried to burn
her."
Hamilton took a deep breath, let it out, then said,
“Listen to me. I don’t know much about women,
and sometimes it seems like I didn’t know any-
thing about them. But I’m sure of this — she won’t
let a little thing like you taking a pot shot at her
stand in the way if you ever had any chance with
her at all. She’ll forgive you.”
“You don’t really mean that, do you?" Monroe-
Alpha’s face was still tragic, but he clutched at the
hope.
“Certainly I do. Women will forgive anything.”
With a flash of insight he added, "Otherwise the
race would have died out long ago.”
X.
“I cannot say,” remarked the Honorable Member
from Great Lakes Central, “that I place high evalu-
ation on Brother Mordan’s argument that this
project should be taken up to get young Hamil-
ton's consent to propagate. It is true that I am
not entirely familiar with the details of the genetic
sequence involved — ”
“You should be,” Mordan cut in somewhat
acidly. “I supplied full transcript two days ago.”
“I beg your pardon, brother. In those forty-
eight hours I have held hearings steadily. The
Mississippi Valley matter, you know. It’s rather
urgent.”
“I’m sorry,” Mordan apologized. “It’s easy for
a layman to forget the demands on a Planner’s
time.”
“Never mind. No need for finicky courtesy
among ourselves. I scanned the brief and the first
sixty pages while we were assembling; that, with
such previous knowledge of the case as I had, gives
me a rough idea of your problem. But tell me, am
I correct in thinking that Hamilton holds nothing
exclusively in his chart? You have alternative
choices?”
“Yes.”
“You expected to finish with his descendant gen-
eration . . . how many generations would be re-
quired, using alternative choices?”
“Three additional generations.”
“That is what I thought, and that is my reason
for disagreeing with your argument. The genetic
purpose of the sequence is, I think, of great im-
portance to the race, but a delay of a hundred
years, more or less, is not important — not suffi-
ciently important to justify an undertaking as
major as a full effort to investigate the question
of survival after death.”
“I take it,” put in the Speaker for the Day, “that
you wish to be recorded as opposing Brother Mor-
dan’s proposal?”
“No, Hubert, no. You anticipate me — incor-
rectly. I am supporting his proposition. Notwith-
standing the fact that I consider his reasons,
though good, to be insufficient, I evaluate the pro-
posal as worth while in itself. I think we should
support it fully.”
The member from the Antilles looked up from
the book he was reading — not rudeness; every-
one present knew that he had parallel mental proc-
esses and no one expected him to waste half the
use of his time out of politeness — and said, “I
think George should amplify his reason.”
“I will. We policy men are like a pilot who is
attempting to do a careful job of conning his ship
without having any idea of his destination. Ham-
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
71
ilton has put his finger on the weak point in our
whole culture — he should be a Planner himself!
Every decision that we make, although it is based
on data, is shaped by our personal philosophies.
The data is examined in the light of those philos-
ophies. How many of you have an opinion about
survival-after-death? I ask for a show of hands.
Come now, be honest with yourselves.”
Somewhat hesitantly they put their hands up —
men and women alike, every one of them. “Now,"
the Great Lakes member continued, “the hands of
those who are sure that their opinions are cor-
rect.”
All of the hands went down, save that of the
member from Patagonia. “Bravo!” Rembert of the
Lakes called out. “I should have guessed that you
would be sure.”
She took the cigar out of her mouth, said rather
sharply, “Any fool knows that one," and went back
to her needlework. She was something over a hun-
dred years old, and the only control natural on the
Board. Her district had confirmed her tenure
regularly for more than fifty years. Her eyesight
was thought to be failing, but she had all of her
own yellow teeth. Her wrinkled, mahogany fea-
tures showed more evidence of Indian blood than
Caucasian. They all claimed to be a little afraid
of her.
“Carvala," Rembert said to her, “perhaps you can
cut the matter short by giving us the answer.”
“I can’t tell you the answer — and you wouldn't
believe me if I did." She was silent for a moment,
then added, “Let the boy do as he pleases. He will
anyway.”
“Do you support or oppose Mordan’s proposi-
tion?"
“Support. Not that you’re likely to go at it
right.”
There was a short silence. Every member in the
chamber was busily reviewing to himself — trying
to recall when, if ever, Carvala had been proven to
be on the wrong side of a question — in the long
run.
“It would seem obvious," Rembert continued, “to
me. that the only rational personal philosophy
based on a conviction that we die dead, never to
rise again, is a philosophy of complete hedonism.
Such a hedonist might seek his pleasure in life in
very subtle, indirect, and sublimated fashions;
nevertheless pleasure must be his only rational
purpose — no matter how lofty his conduct may ap-
pear to be from the outside. On the other hand,
the possibility of something more to life than the
short span we see opens up an unlimited possibility
of evaluations other than hedonistic. It seems to
me a fit subject to investigate."
“Granting your point,” commented the woman
representing the Northwest Union, “is it our busi-
ness to do so? Our functions and our authority
are limited ; we are forbidden by constitution from
meddling with spiritual matters. How about it,
Johann?”
The member addressed was the only priest per-
sona among them, he being the Most Reverend
Mediator to some millions of his coreligionists
south of the Rio Grande. His political prominence
was the more exceptional in that the great ma-
jority of his constituents were not of his faith. “I
do not see, Geraldine," he replied, “that the con-
stitutional restriction applies. What Brother Mor-
dan proposes is a coldly scientific investigation.
Its consequences may have spiritual implications,
if there are positive results, but an unbiased inves-
tigation is no violation of religious freedom."
“Johann is right,” said Rembert. “There is no
subject inappropriate for scientific research. Jo-
hann, we’ve let you fellows have a monopoly of
such matters for too long. The most serious ques-
tions in the world have been left to faith or specu-
lation. It is time for scientists to cope with them,
or admit that science is no more than pebble count-
ing."
"Go ahead. I shall be interested in seeing what
you can make of them — in laboratories.”
Hoskins Geraldine looked at him. “I wonder,
Johann, what your attitude will be if this research
should turn up facts which contravert some one of
your articles of faith?"
"That," he answered imperturbably, “is a matter
for me to settle with myself. It need not affect
this Board.”
“I think," observed the Speaker for the Day,
"that we might now seek a preliminary expression
of opinion. Some support the proposal — are any
opposed?” There was no response. “Are any un-
decided?" There was still no response, but one
member stirred slightly. “You wished to speak,
Richard?”
“Not yet. I support the proposal, but I will
speak to it later."
“Very well. It appears to be unanimous. It is
so ordered. I will co-opt an instigator later. Now,
Richard?"
The member-at-large for transient citizens indi-
cated that he was ready. "The research does not
cover enough territory.”
“Yes."
“When it was proposed as a means of persuading
Hamilton Felix to accede to the wishes of the State
geneticists it was sufficient. But we are now un-
dertaking it for itself. Is that not true?"
The Speaker glanced around the room, picking
up nods from all but ancient Carvala — she seemed
uninterested in the whole matter. “Yes, that is
true."
“Then we should undertake not just one of the
problems of philosophy, but all of them. The same
reasons apply.”
72
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Mm-m-m. We are under no necessity of being
consistent, you know."
“Yes, I know, and I am not trammeled by the
meshes of verbal logic. I am interested. I am
stimulated by the vista. I want us to extend the
research.”
“Very well. I am interested, too. I think we
might well spend the next several days discussing
it. I will postpone co-opting the instigator until
we determine just how far we will go."
Mordan had been intending to ask to be excused,
his mission accomplished, but, at this new twist,
fire and earthquake, garnished with pretty girls,
could not have tempted him to leave. As a citizen,
he was entitled to listen if he chose: as a distin-
guished synthesist himself, no one would think of
objecting to his physical presence in the circle of
discussion. He stayed.
The member for transients went on, “We should
enumerate and investigate all of the problems of
philosophy, especially the problems of metaphys-
ics and epistemology."
“I had thought,” the Speaker said mildly, “that
epistemology had been pretty well settled.”
“Certainly, certainly — in the limited sense of
agreeing on the semantic nature of symbolic com-
munication. Speech and other communication
symbols necessarily refer back to agreed-upon,
pointed-to referent physical facts, no matter how
high the level of abstraction, for communication to
take place. Beyond that we cannot communicate.
That’s why Brother Johann and I can’t argue
about religion. He carries his around inside him
and can’t point to what he means — as I carry mine.
We can’t even be sure that we disagree. Our no-
tions about religion may be identical, but we can’t
talk about it meaningfully — so we keep quiet."
Johann smiled with untroubled good nature, but
said nothing. Carvala looked up from her fancy-
work and said sharply, "Is this a development
center lecture?”
“Sorry, Carvala. We agree on the method of
symbol communication — the symbol is not the re-
ferent, the map is not the territory, the speech-
sound is not the physical process. We go further
and admit that the symbol never abstracts all of
the details of the process it refers to. And we con-
cede that symbols can be used to manipulate sym-
bols — dangerously but usefully. And we agree
that symbols should be structurally as similar as
possible to the referents for communication pur-
poses. To that extent epistemology is settled; but
the key problem of epistemology — how we know
what we know and what that knowledge means —
we have settled by agreeing to ignore — like Johann
and myself in re theology.”
“Do you seriously propose that we investigate
it?”
"I do. It’s a key problem in the general problem
of the personality. There is a strong interconnec-
tion between it and the object of Mordan’s pro-
posal. Consider — if a man ‘lives’ after his body is
dead or before that body was conceived, then a man
is something more than his genes and his subse-
quent environment. The doctrine of no-personal-
responsibility for personal acts has become popu-
lar through the contrary assumption. I won't go
into the implications — they must be evident to all
of you — in ethics, in politics, in every field. But
note the parallel between map-territory and gene-
chart-and-man. These basic problems are all inter-
related and the solution to any of them might be
the key to all the others.”
“You did not mention the possibility of direct
communication without symbols.”
“I implied it. That is one of the things we
agreed to forget when we accepted the semantic
negative-statements as the final word on epistemol-
ogy. But it ought to be looked into again. There
is something to telepathy, even if we can’t measure
it and manipulate it. Any man who has ever been
happily married knows that, even if he’s afraid to
talk about it. Infants and animals and primitives
have some use of it. Maybe we’ve been too smart.
But the question ought to be reopened.”
“Speaking of philosophical questions in gen-
eral,” put in the member from New Bolivar, “we
have already agreed to subsidize one. Dr. Thorg-
sen’s project — the ballistic stellarium — eidour-
naian, I should call it. The origin and destination
of the universe is certainly a classic problem of
metaphysics."
“You are right," confirmed the Speaker. “If we
follow Richard’s proposal, Dr. Thorgscn's project
should be included under it.”
“I suggest that we did not allot Dr. Thorgsen
sufficient credit.”
“The subsidy could be increased, but he has not
spent much of it. He seems to have little talent
for spending money.”
"Perhaps he needs abler assistants. There is
Hargrave Caleb, and, of course, Monroe-Alpha
Clifford. Monroe-Alpha is wasted in the depart-
ment of finance."
“Thorgsen knows Monroe-Alpha. Perhaps Mon-
roe-Alpha doesn't want to work on it.”
“Nonsense! Any man likes a job that stretches
his muscles.”
“Then perhaps Thorgsen hesitated to ask him to
help. Thorgsen is an essentially modest man, and
so is Monroe-Alpha.”
“That seems more likely.”
“In any case,” the Speaker finished, “such details
are for the instigator to consider, not the whole
Board. Are you ready for opinion? The question
is Brother Richard’s proposal in the broadest
sense — I suggest that we postpone elaboration of
the details of projects and methods until tomorrow
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
73
and other morrows In the meantime — does any
member oppose?"
There was no opposition; there was full consent.
“So be it,” said the Speaker. He smiled. “It
seems we are about to attempt to walk where So-
crates stumbled. It will take some doing!"
“Crawl, not ‘walk,’” Johann corrected. “We
have limited ourselves to the experimental meth-
ods of science."
“True, true. Well, ‘he who crawls cannot stum-
ble.' Now to other matters — we still have a State
to govern!”
XI.
"How would you like," Felix asked Phyllis, “to
have a half-interest in a gladiator?"
“What in the world are you talking about?”
“This undertaking of Smith Darlington's — feet-
ball. We are going to incorporate each employee’s
contract and sell it. Our agent thinks it will be
a good investment and. truthfully, I think he’s
right."
“Feetball," repeated Phyllis meditatively. "You
did say something about it, but I never under-
stood it."
“It’s a silly business, at best. Twenty-two men
get out on a large open place and battle with their
bare hands.”
"Why?"
“The excuse is to move a little plastic spheroid
from one end of the place to the other."
“What difference does it make which end it’s
on?"
“None, really — but it's as reasonable as any other
game."
“I don't get it," Phyllis decided. "Why should
anyone fight unless he wants to kill someone?"
“You have to see it to understand it. It’s excit-
ing. I even found myself shouting."
“You!"
“Uh-huh. Me. Old calm-as-a-cat Felix. It's go-
ing to take hold, I tell you. It's going to be popu-
lar. We'll sell permissions to view it physically
and then all sorts of lesser rightB — direct pickup,
and recording, and so forth. Smith has a lot of
ideas about identifying the various combinations
with cities and organizations and attaching color
symbols to them and songs and things. He's full
of ideas — an amazing young man, for a barbarian.”
“He must be.”
“Better let me buy you a piece of it. It’s a pure
spec proposition and you can get in cheap — now.
It'll make you rich.”
“What use have I for any more money?"
"I don’t know. You might spend it on me.”
“That’s pretty silly. You're bloated with credit
now.”
“Well, that brings me around to another subject.
When we’re married you can really put your mind
on helping me spend it."
“Are you on that subject again?”
“Why not? Times have changed. There is no
obstacle any more. I’ve come around to Mordan’s
way of thinking."
“So Mordan told me.”
“He did? Egg’s Name — everything goes on be-
hind my back ! Never mind. When do we stat the
contract?”
“What makes you think we are going to?”
"Huh? Wait a minute — I thought that all that
stood between us was a difference of opinion about
children?”
“You thought too much. What I said was that
I would never marry a man who didn’t want chil-
dren.”
“But I understood you to say — ” He got up and
moved nervously around the room. “Say, Phil —
don't you like me?"
"You're nice enough — in your own horrid way."
"Then what’s the trouble?"
She did not answer.
Presently he said, “I don't know whether it
makes any difference since you feel that way about
it, but I love you — you know that, don't you?”
"Come here.” He came to where she was sitting.
She took him by the ears and pulled his head
down.
“Filthy, you big dope — you should have said that
ten minutes ago.” She kissed him.
Sometime later she said dreamily, "Filthy — "
"Yes, darling?"
“After we have Theobald we’ll have a little girl,
and then another little boy, and then maybe an-
other girl."
“Um — ”
"Unt-m-m — "
She sat up. "What’s the matter? Aren’t you
pleased at the prospect?" She looked at him
closely.
“Sure, sure."
“Then why are you looking so glum?"
“I was thinking about Cliff. The poor lunk."
“Hasn’t he found any trace of her yet?"
"Nary a trace.”
“Oh, dear!” She put her arms around him and
held him.
No sign of her in the Giant Forest, though he
had cut the air back to the place. No woman had
registered there with the given name of Marion.
No one could he find who could identify her by
his description. No ship had checked in there reg-
istered to such a person. Nor did the owners of
the ships that had been there know such a person
— several of them knew Marions, but not the
Marion — although three of them had responded to
the description closely enough to »and him charg-
ing across country, with wildly beating heart, on
errands which cruelly disappointed him.
There remained Johnson-Smith Estaire, at
74
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
whose town house he had first seen her. He had
consulted her at once, after his initial failure to
find Marion still at the Park. No, she didn’t recall
such a person. “After all, my dear Master Mon-
roe-Alpha, the place was simply mobbed.”
Did she keep a guest list? Yes, of course; what
kind of a hostess did he think she was? Could he
see it? She sent for her social secretary.
There was no Marion on the list.
He went back again. Could she have been mis-
taken? No, there was no mistake. But people
sometimes brought others along to such a party as
that — had he thought of that? In that case the
hostess would have no record of it. Did she re-
call any such? No, she couldn’t — it was too much
to ask. Would it be too much to ask to copy the
guest list? Not at all — anything to oblige.
But first he must listen to her. “It’s becoming
simply impossible to get servants at any reasonable
wage.” Couldn’t he do something about it. "Dear
Master Monroe-Alpha.” In what way? He was
the man who handled the dividend, wasn’t he?
That was the trouble — with the dividend so high
they simply would not enter service unless you
simply bribed them, my dear.
He tried to explain to her that he had no con-
trol over the dividend, that he was simply the
mathematical go-between for the facts of eco-
nomics and the Policy Board. He could see that
she did not believe him.
He decided not to tell her, since he wanted a
favor from her, that he himself would not choose
to work as a personal servant for another unless
driven to it by hunger. He tried to suggest that
she make use of the excellent automaton furniture
manufactured by her husband, supplemented by
the help of the service companies. But she would
have none of it. “So common, my dear. I tell you
nothing replaces a well-trained servant. I should
think people of that sort would take pride in such
a profession. I’m sure I would if I were called to
such a station in life.”
Monroe-Alpha wondered where she had picked
up such ideas, but he held his peace, and made
sympathetic noises. Presently he got the list.
Impatiently, but with aching care, he plodded
through the list. Some of the addresses were out-
side the Capital, some as far away as South Amer-
ica — Johncon-Smith Estaire was a fashionable hos-
tess. Those he could not question himself, not fast
enough to satisfy the lump of misery inside hiqj.
He must hire agents to track them down. He did
so ; it took all the credit he had — personal service
comes high! — he borrowed against his salary to
make up the deficit.
Two of the guests had died in the meantime.
He set more agents to work, investigating tactfully
their backgrounds and acquaintances, trying, try-
ing to locate a woman named Marion. He dare
BEYOND THIS HORIZON—
75
not even leave these two deceased to the last, for
fear the trail might grow cold.
The others, those living in the Capital, he inves-
tigated himself. No. we took no one with us to
that party — certainly no one named Marion. Es-
tate's party? — let me see, she gives so many. Oh.
that one — no, I’m sorry. Now let me think— do
you mean Selby Marion? No, Selby Marion is a
little tiny woman with bright-red hair. Sorry, my
dear fellow — care for a drink? No? What’s the
hurry?
Yes, surely. My cousin, Faircoat Marion.
There’s a stereo of her over there, on the organ.
Not the one you’re looking for? Well, signal me
and tell me how you made out. Always glad to
do a favor for a friend of Estaire’s. Fine woman,
Estaire — always lots of fun at her place.
We did take someone to that party — who was it,
dear? Oh, yes, Reynolds Hans. He had some
strange girl with him. No, I can’t remember her
name — do you. dear? Me, I just call them all Lol-
lipop, if they’re under thirty. But here’s Reyn-
olds’ address : you might ask him.
Master Reynolds did not consider it an intru-
sion, no. Yes, he recalled the occasion — jolly
brawl. Yes, he had escorted his cousin from San-
frisco. Why, yes, her name was Marion — Hartnett
Marion. How had he known her name?
Say, that's interesting — done something like that
himself once. Thought he’d lost track of the girl,
only she turned up the following week at another
party. Married, though, and in love with her hus-
band — fortunately.
No, he didn’t mean that Marion was married, but
this other girl — kid named Francine. Did he have
a picture of his cousin? Well, now, let me see, he
didn’t think so. Wait now, he might have a flat
pic, taken when they were kids, in a scrapbook
somewhere. Where would that be? He was go-
ing to clean out this flat some day and throw away
a lot of this junk — never could find anything when
he wanted it.
Here it is — that's Marion, in the front row, sec-
ond from the left. Was that the girl?
It was she I It was she!
How fast can a skyracer be pushed? How many
corners can a man cut without being patrolled?
Go — go —go!
He paused for a moment and tried to still his
racing heart, before signaling at the door. The
scanner investigated him and the door dilated.
He found her alone.
He stopped when he saw her, unable to move,
unable to speak, face white.
“Come in," she said.
“You . . . you’ll receive me?"
“Of course. I’ve been waiting.’
He searched her eyes. They were warm and
tender still, albeit troubled. “I don’t understand.
I tried to burn you.”
“You didn’t mean to. You didn’t want to.”
“I — But — Oh, Marion, Marion!” He stum-
bled forward toward her, and half fell. His head
was in her lap. He shook with the racking sobs
of one who had not learned how to cry.
She patted his shoulder. “My dear. My dear."
He looked up at last and found that her face
was wet, even though he had heard no sound of
tears. "I love you,” he said. He said it tragically,
as if it were an irreparable harm.
“I know. I love you."
Much later, she said to him, "Come with me."
He followed her on out into another room, where
she busied herself at her wardrobe. “What are
you doing?"
“I’ve a few things to take care of first.”
"First?”
“This time I’m coming with you."
On the flight back he used the phrase “ — after
we’re married." She looked at him a little
strangely.
"You intend to marry me?"
“Of course. If you'll have me."
"You would marry a control natural?"
“Why not?" He met the issue bravely, even
casually.
Why not? Well. Roman citizens, proud of their
patrician Latin blood, could have told him. The
white aristocracy of the Old South could have, in
their little day, explained to him in detail why
not. "Aryan” race-myth apologists could have de-
fined the reasons. Of course, in each case the per-
sons giving the reasons would have had a different
"race" in mind in explaining the obscene horror
he contemplated committing, but their reasons
would have been the same. Even Johnson-Smith
Estaire could have explained to him "Why not”—
and she would most certainly cut him off her list
for stooping to such an alliance.
After all. kings and emperors have lost their
thrones for lesser miscegenations.
“That was all I wanted to know," she said.
“Come here, Clifford.”
He came, a little mystified. She raised her left
arm; he read the little figures tattooed there. The
registration number was — no matter. But the
classification letter was neither the "B” of a basic
type, such as he bore, nor the CN of a control
natural. It was X — experimental.
She told him about it a little later. Her hyper-
dexter great grandparents had both been control
naturals. "Of course it shows a little,” she said.
“I do catch colds — if I don’t take my pills. And
sometimes I forget. I’m a sloppy person, Clif-
ford."
A child of those two ancestors, her hyperdexter
grandfather, had been identified, rather late in life,
as a mutation, probably favorable — almost cer-
76
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
tainly favorable. His mutation was no gross mat-
ter. easily recognized, but was subtle and sublimi-
nal. It had to do with emotional stability. Per-
haps it would be easiest to say that he was more
civilized than any man can be expected to be.
Naturally, an attempt was made to conserve the
mutation. She was one of the conservators.
XII.
Phyllis squealed at him as he got home. “Felix!"
He chucked the file case he had been carrying
aside and kissed her. “What’s the trouble, Flut-
terbrain?”
“This. Look. Read it." “It” was a stat of a
handwritten message. He read aloud:
“ ‘Espartero Carvala presents her compliments
to Madame Longcourt Phyllis and prays permis-
sion to call on the morrow at half after sixteen
hundred.’ Hm-m-m. You’re shooting high, dar-
ling."
“But whatever am I to do?"
“Do? Why, you put out your hand, say ‘How
do you fare?’ and then serve her something — tea,
I suppose, though they say she drinks like a fish.”
“Filthy!”
“What’s the matter?"
“Don't joke with me. What am I to do? I can’t
entertain her. She’s a Policy Maker — I wouldn’t
know what to say to her."
“Suppose she is on the Policy Board. She’s hu-
man, ain't she? Our home is all right, isn’t it? Go
down and buy yourself a new gown — then you’ll
feel fit for anything.”
Instead of brightening up, she began to cry. He
took her in his arms and said, "There, there!
What’s the trouble? Did I say something wrong?"
She stopped and dabbed at her eyes. "No. Just
nerves, I guess. I’m all right.”
"You startled me. You never did anything like
that before.”
“No. But I never had a baby before, either."
“Yeah, that’s right. Well, cry, if it makes you
feel better. But don't let this old fossil get under
your skin, kid. You don’t have to receive her, you
know. I'll call her and tell her you aren’t go-
ing to.”
She seemed quite recovered from her unease.
“No, don’t do that. I'd really like to see her. I'm
curious and I’m flattered."
They had discussed with each other the question
as to whether Madame Espartero Carvala had in-
tended to call on both of them, or Phyllis only.
Felix was reluctant to be present if his presence
was not expected; he was equally reluctant to fail
to show proper urbanity by not being present to
receive a distinguished visitor. As he pointed out
to Phyllis, it was his home as well as hers.
He telephoned Mordan, since he knew that Mor-
dan was much closer to such mighty and remote
people than himself. Mcrdan gave him no help.
“She's a rule unto herself, Felix. She’s quite
capable of breaking every custom of polite con-
duct, if she chooses.”
“Any idea why she’s coming?”
“Not the slightest. Sorry." Mordan himself
wondered, but was honest enough with himself to
admit that his guesses were unsound — no data; he
simply did not understand the old girl, and knew
it.
Madame Espartero Carvala settled the matter
herself. She came stumping in, supporting herself
with a heavy cane. Clutched in her left hand was
a lighted cigar. Hamilton approached her, bowed.
"Madame — ” he began
She peeied at him “You’re Hamilton Felix.
Where's your wife?"
“If madame will come with me." He attempted
to offer her his arm for support.
“I can manage,” she said rather ungraciously.
Nevertheless she clamped the cigar in her teeth
and took his arm. He was amazed to find how
little she weighed, judging by the pressure on his
arm — but the grip of her fingers was firm. Once
in the lounging room, in the presence of Phyllis,
she said, "Come here, child. Let me look at you.”
Hamilton stood by foolishly, not knowing
whether to seat himself or leave. The old lady
turned, noticing that he was still there, and said,
“You are very gracious to escort me in to your
wife. I thank you.” The formal politeness of the
words were oddly at variance with her first, brittle
remarks, but they were not delivered in warm
tones. Felix realized that he had been clearly and
unmistakably dismissed. He got out.
He went to his retiring room, selected a scroll-
script, fitted it into the reader, and prepared to kill
time until Carvala should leave. But he found
himself unable to fix his attention on the story he
selected. He found that he had used the rewind
button three times and still had no notion of how
the story started.
Damn! he thought — I might as well have gone
to the office.
For he had an office — now. The thought made
him smile a little. He was the man who was never
going to be tied down, who had split his profits
with a man-of-affairs rather than be troubled with
business worries. Yet here he was, married, an
expectant father, actually living at the same ad-
dress as his wife, and — possessing an office! True,
the office had nothing to do with his business af-
fairs.
He found himself actually engaged in the Great
Research which Mordan had promised. Carruthers
Alfred, former member of the Policy Board until
he had retired to pursue his studies', had been co-
opted as instigator for the enlarged project. He
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
77
in turn had co-opted Hamilton. He had protested
to Carruthers that he was no synthesist, nor sci-
entist. Nevertheless Carruthers wanted him. “You
have an erratic and unorthodox imagination,” he
had said. “This job calls for imagination, the more
heterodox the better. You needn’t do routine re-
search if you don’t want to — plenty of patient
technicians for that."
Felix suspected that Mordan had had something
to do with his selection, but did not press him
about it. Mordan, Hamilton knew, had an over-
rated opinion of his ability. Hamilton esteemed
himself as a second-rater, a competent and high-
powered man, but a second-rater none the less.
That chart that Mordan talked about — you could
not compress a man into a diagram and hang him
on a wall. He was not that chart. And didn’t he
know more about himself, from sitting on the in-
side, than any genetic technician could learn by
peering down the double barrel of a 'scope?
But he had to admit he was glad that he had been
invited into the project — it interested him. He
had realized quite early that the enlarged project
had not been taken up just to circumvent his balki-
ness — the transcript of authorization had shown
him that. But he did not feel cheated — Mordan
had delivered everything that he had promised, and
Felix had become interested in the project for its
own sake — both projects. Both the great public
project of the Great Research and the private mat-
ter of himself, Phyllis, and their child to come.
He wondered what the little tike would be like.
Mordan seemed confident that he knew. He had
shown them the diploid chromosome chart result-
ing from their carefully chosen gametes and had
expounded on just how the characteristics of the
two parents would be combined in the child. Felix
was not so sure; in spite of his own reasonably
thorough knowledge of genetic theory and tech-
nique he simply was not convinced that all of a
human being's multifold complexity could be
wrapped up in a little blob of protoplasm smaller
than a pin point. It was not reasonable. There
had to be something more to a man than that.
Mordan had seemed to find it highly desirable
that he and Phyllis possessed so many Mendelian
characteristics in common. It not only, he pointed
out, made the task of selection of gametes much
simpler and shorter, but also insured reinforce-
ment of those characteristics, genetically. Paired
genes would be similar, instead of opposed.
On the other hand, Hamilton found that Mor-
dan looked with favor on the alliance of Monroe-
Alpha and Hartnett Marion, although they were
obviously as dissimilar as two persons could well
be. Hamilton pointed out the inconsistency in rea-
soning. Mordan had been unperturbed.
"Each genetic case is a discreet individual. No
rule in genetics is invariable. They complement
each other.”
It was certainly obvious that Marion had made
Cliff happy, happier than Felix had ever seen him.
The big dope.
He had long been of the opinion that what Cliff
needed was a keeper, someone to lead him around
on a string, fetch him indoors when it rained, and
tickle him when he pouted. (Not that the opin-
ion subtracted from his very real devotion to his
friend.)
Marion seemed to qualify on all counts. She
hardly let him out of her sight.
She worked with him, under the euphemistic
title of “special secretary.”
‘“Special secretary?’ ” Hamilton had said, when
Monroe-Alpha told him about it. “What does she
do? Is she a mathematician?"
“Not at all. She doesn't know a thing about
mathematics — but she thinks I’m wonderful!" He
grinned boyishly — Hamilton was startled to see
how it changed his face. “Who am I to contradict
her?”
“Cliff, if you keep that up, you’ll have a sense
of humor yet."
“She thinks I have one now.”
“Perhaps you have. I knew a man who raised
wart hogs once. He said they made the Bowers
more beautiful.”
“Why did he think that?” Monroe-Alpha was
puzzled and interested.
"Never mind. Just what is it that Marion does?"
“Oh, a lot of little things. Keeps track of things
I'd forget, brings me a cup of tea in the afternoon.
Mostly she’s just here when I want her. When a
concept won’t come straight and my head feels
tired, I can look up and there’s Marion, just sitting
there, looking at me. Maybe she's been reading,
but when I look up I don’t have to say anything —
she’s looking back at me. I tell you it helps. I
never get tired any more.” He smiled again.
Hamilton realized with sudden insight that there
never had been anything wrong with Monroe-
Alpha except that the poor boob had never been
happy. He had had no defenses against the world
— until now. Marion had enough for both of them.
He had wanted to ask Cliff what Hazel thought
of the new arrangements, but hesitated to do so,
despite their close friendship. Monroe-Alpha
brought it up himself. “You know, Felix, I was
a little worried about Hazel."
“So?”
“Yes. I know she had said she wanted to enter
a divorce, but I hadn’t quite believed her."
“Why not?" Felix had inquired blandly.
Monroe-Alpha had colored. “Now, Felix, you’re
just trying to get me mixed up. Anyhow, she
seemed positively relieved when I told her about
Marion and me. She wants to take up dancing
again.”
78
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Felix thought with regret that it was a mistake
for an artist, once retired, to attempt a comeback.
But Cliff's next words made him realize he had
been hasty. “It was Thorgsen’s idea — ”
“Thorgsen? Your boss?”
“Yes. He had been telling her about the out-
stations, particularly the ones on Pluto, of course,
but he mentioned Mars and the rest, I suppose.
They don’t get much recreation, other than canned
shows and reading.” Hamilton knew what he
meant, although he had never thought much about
it. With the exception of the tourist cities on
Luna there was nothing to attract human beings
to the other planets, save for exploration and re-
search. The devoted few who put up with the un-
earthly hardships necessarily lived a monklike ex-
istence. Luna was a special case, naturally; being
practically in Earth's front yard and an easy jump,
it was as popular for romantic holidays as South-
pole had once been.
“She got the idea, or Thorgsen suggested it to
her, of getting together a diversified traveling
troupe to play a circuit of all the outposts.”
“It doesn't sound commercial.”
"It doesn't have to be. Thorgsen took the mat-
ter up for subsidy. He argued that, if research
and exploration were necessary, then morale of the
personnel involved was a government matter, in
spite of the long-standing policy against govern-
ment participation in the entertainment business,
luxury business, or fine arts."
Hamilton whistled. “Nice going! Why, that
principle was almost as rock solid as civil rights."
“Yes, but it was r.ot a matter of constitution.
And the Planners are no fools. They don’t neces-
sarily follow precedent. Look at this job we're on."
"Yes, surely. Matter of fact, that was what I
dropped in to see you about. I wanted to see how
you were getting along.”
At the time of this conversation Hamilton was
feeling his way into the whole picture of the Great
Research. Carruthers had given him no fixed in-
structions, but had told him to spend a few weeks
sizing up the problem.
The phase of the research occupying Monroe-
Alpha’s attention — Thorgsen’s project, the Grand
Eidouraniun — was much further advanced than
any other aspect of the whole project, since it had
been conceived originally as a separate matter be-
fore the Great Research, which included it, had
been thought of. Monroe-Alpha had come into it
rather late, but Hamilton had assumed subcon-
sciously that his friend would be the dominant fig-
ure in it. This, Monroe-Alpha maintained, was not
true.
"Hargrave is much more fitted for this sort of
work than I am. I take my directions from him —
myself, and about sixty others.”
“How come? I thought you were tops in the
numbers racket.”
“I have my specialty and Hargrave knows how
to make the best use of it. You apparently have
no idea of how diversified and specialized mathe-
matics is, Felix. I remember a congress I attended
last year — more than a thousand present, but there
weren't more than a dozen men there I could really
talk to, or understand.”
“Hm-m-m. What does Thorgsen do?”
“Well, naturally, he isn’t of much use in design
— he’s an astrophysicist, or, more properly, a cos-
mic metrician. But he keeps in touch and his sug-
gestions are always practical.”
“I see. Well — got everything you want?”
“Yes,” admitted Monroe-Alpha, "unless you
should happen to have concealed, somewhere about
your person, a hypersphere, a hypersurface, and
some four-dimensional liquid, suitable for fine lu-
brication.”
“Thanks. You can hand me back my leg now.
I see I’ve been wrong again — you are acquiring a
sense of humor.”
“I am quite serious about it," Cliff answered
without cracking a smile, “even though I haven’t
the slightest idea where I could find such nor how
I could manipulate it if I did.”
“For why? Give."
“I would like to set up a four-dimensional in-
tegrator to integrate from the solid surface of a
four-dimensional cam. It would greatly shorten
our work if we could do such a thing. The irony
of it is that I can describe the thing I want to
build, in mathematical symbology, quite nicely. It
would do work, which we now have to do with
ordinary ball-and-plane integrators and ordinary
three-dimensional cams, in one operation whereas
the system we use calls for an endless series of
operations. It’s a little maddening — the theory is
so neat and the results are so unsatisfactory.”
“I grieve for you," Hamilton had answered, “but
you had better take it up with Hargrave.”
He had left soon after that. It was evident that
those human calculating machines needed nothing
from him, and that they knew what they were do-
ing. The project was important, damned impor-
tant he thought it was — to investigate what the
Universe had been and what it would become. But
it was certainly a long-distance matter and he him-
self would never live to see the end of it. Cliff
had told him with a perfectly straight face that
they hoped to check their preliminary calculations
in a matter of three or three and a half centuries.
After that they could hope to build a really worth-
while machine which might tell them things they
did not already know.
So he dismissed the matter. He admired the sort
of intellectual detachment which would permit
men to work on such a scale, but it was not his
horse.
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
79
The Great Research in its opening phases
seemed to fall into half a dozen major projects,
some of which interested him more than others be-
cause they gave some hope of producing results
during his lifetime. Some, however, were almost
as colossal as the building of the Grand Eidou-
raniun. The distribution of life through the physi-
cal universe, for example, and the possibility that
other, nonhuman intelligences existed somewhere.
If there were such, then it was possible, with an
extremely high degree of mathematical proba-
bility, that some of them, at least, were more
advanced than men.
In which case they might give Man a ‘‘leg up"
in his philosophical education. They might have
discovered “Why" as well as “How.”
It had been pointed out that it might be ex-
tremely dangerous, psychologically, for human be-
ings to encounter such superior creatures. There
had been the tragic case of the Australian Abo-
rigines in not too remote historical times — de-
moralized and finally exterminated by their own
sense of inferiority in the presence of the coloniz-
ing Anglish.
The investigators serenely accepted the danger;
they were not bo constituted as to be able to do
otherwise.
Hamilton was not sure it was a danger. To some
it might be, but he himself could not conceive of
a man such as Mordan, for example, losing his
morale under any circumstances. In any case it
was a long-distance project. First they must
roach the stars, which required inventing and
building a starship. That would take a bit of do-
ing. The great ships which plied the lonely
reaches between the planets were simply not up
to it, any more than a groundcar could fly. Some
new drive must be found, if the trips were not to
take generations for each leg.
Some application of nuclear-fission power per-
haps — so cheap and immense, but still so hard to
handle. Or perhaps the hydrogen-helium degenera-
tion, the “Solar Phoenix,” which seemed to be the
inner source of power of all the stars — nuclear
power, too, but not one used in terrestrial power
plants.
That they would find life elsewhere in the Uni-
verse he was quite sure, although millennia of
exploration might intervene. After all, he consid-
ered, the Universe was roomy! It had taken Eu-
ropeans four centuries to spread throughout the
two continents of the "New World" — what about
a galaxy I
But Life they would find. It was not only an
inner conviction; it was just short of scientific
fact, for it was a tight inference of one stage only
from established fact. Arrhenius the Great had
set forth the brilliant speculation, sometime
around the beginning of the twentieth century,
that life-potent spores might be carried from
planet to planet, from star to star, pushed along
by light pressure. The optimum size for motes to
be carried along by light pressure happens to be
on the same order as the sizes of bacilli. And
bacilli spores are practically unkillable — heat, cold,
radiation, time — they sleep through it until lodged
in a favorable environment.
Arrhenius calculated that spores could drift to
Alpha Centauri in around nine thousand years—
a mere cosmic blink of the eye.
If Arrhenius were right, then the Universe was
populated, not just Earth. It mattered not whether
life had originated first on Earth, first elsewhere,
or in many different neighborhoods, once started
it had to spread. Millions of years before space-
ships it had spread — if Arrhenius were right. For
spores alone, lodging and multiplying, would in-
fect an entire planet with whatever forms of life
were suited to that planet. Protoplasm is protean;
any simple protoplasm can become any complex
form of life under mutation and selection.
Arrhenius had been spectacularly vindicated, in
part, in the early days of interplanetary explora-
tion. Life had been found on all the planets, save
Mercury and Pluto; even on Pluto there were
signs of feeble, primitive life in the past. Fur-
thermore, protoplasm seemed to be much the same
wherever found — incredibly varied but presumably
related. It was disappointing not to have found
recognizable intelligence in the Solar System — it
would have been nice to have had neighbors! (The
poor degenerate starveling descendants of the
once-mighty Builders of Mars can hardly be de-
scribed as intelligent — except in charity. A half-
witted dog could cheat them at cards.)
But the most startling and satisfying vindica-
tion of Arrhenius lay in the fact that spores had
been trapped out in space itself, in the supposedly
sterile raw vacuum of space!
Hamilton admitted that he did not expect the
search for other living intelligences to bear fruit
during his tenure on Terra, unless they got a hump
on themselves in dreaming up that starship and
then hit the jackpot on the first or second try.
And again it wa6 not his forte — he might cook up
a few gadgets for them as auxiliary mechanicals in
making the ship more livable, but for the key prob-
lem, motive power, he was about twenty years too
late in specializing. No, keep in touch, kibitz a
little, and report to Carruthers — that was all he
could do.
But there were still several other research pos-
sibilities already under way, things that had to do
with human beings, with men, in their more eso-
teric and little-studied aspects. Things that no-
body knew anything about anyhow and which he
could, therefore, tackle on an equal footing with
others, catch-as-catch-can, and no holds barred.
Where does a man go after he’s dead? And, con-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
versely, where does he come from? He made a’
mental note of that latter — it suddenly occurred
to him that most of the attention had been given
to the first half of the paired question. What is
telepathy and how do you make it tick? How is it
that a man can live another life in his dreams?
There were dozens more, all questions science had
refused to tackle because they were too slippery —
had in fact walked away from them like a dis-
gruntled cat. All of them related to some trouble-
some characteristic of the human personality —
whatever that was — and any of them might lead to
an answer as to purpose — meaning.
He felt toward these questions the free and easy
attitude of the man who was asked if he could pilot
a rocket: “I don't know — I've never tried.”
Well, he would try. And he would help Car-
ruthers see to it that many others tried, strongly,
consistently, following out every approach that
could be thought of, and keeping meticulous, full,
scientific records. They would track down the
Ego, trap it, and put a band on its leg.
What was an ego? He didn’t know, but he knew
he was one. By which he did not mean his body,
nor, by damn, his genes. He could localize it —
on the center line, forward of his ears, back of his
eyes, and about four centimeters down from the
top of the skull — no, more like six. That was
where he himself lived — when he was home. He
would bet on it, to the nearest centimeter. He
knew closer than that, but he couldn’t get in and
measure it.
Of course, he wasn’t home all the time.
Hamilton could not figure out just why Car-
ruthers wanted him, but then, he had not been
present at an exchange between Mordan and Car-
ruthers. “How is my problem child getting
along?” Mordan had inquired.
"Quite well, Claude. Quite well indeed.”
"What are you using him for?”
“Well — ” Carruthers pursed his lips. “I’m using
him as a philosopher, only he does not know it.”
Mordan chuckled. “Better not let him know. I
think he might be offended to be called a phi-
losopher.”
"I shan’t. Really, he’s quite useful to me. You
know how impossible most specialists are, and
how pedantic most of our brother synthesists.”
"Tut, tut. Such heresy.”
“Isn’t it, though? But Felix iB useful to me.
He has an active, uninhibited mind. His mind
prowls.’’
“I told you he was a star line.”
"Yes, you did. Every now and then you genetics
laddies come out with the right answer."
“May your bed spring a leak,” Mordan answered.
"We can't always be wrong in view of the num-
bers we deal with. The Great Egg must love hu-
man beings, he made a lot of them."
“Same argument applies to oysters, only more
so."
"That’s different," said Mordan. "I'm the one
who loves oysters. Have you had dinner?”
Felix sat up with a start. The house phone at
his elbow was chiming. He flipped the come-along
tab and heard Phyllis’ voice. "Felix, my dear, will
you come in and say good-by to Madame Espar-
tero?”
"Coming, dear.”
He returned to the lounge, feeling vaguely un-
settled. He had forgotten the presence in their
home of the ancient Planner.
"Madame, will you graciously permit — ”
"Come here, lad!” she said sharply. “I want to
see you in the light.” He came forward and stood
before her, feeling somewhat as he always had as
a child when the development center therapists
checked over his growth and physical develop-
ment. Damnation, he thought, she looks at me as
BEYOND THIS HORIZON—
if I were a horse and she a buyer.
She stood up suddenly and grasped her stick.
“You’ll do,” she stated, as if the knowledge some-
how annoyed her. She extracted a fresh cigar
from somewhere about her person, turned to
Phyllis, and said. “Good-by, child. And thank
you." Whereupon she started for the door.
Felix had to hurry to catch up with her and let
her out.
Felix returned to Phyllis, and said savagely, “A
man that did that would be challenged."
"Why, Felix!”
“I detest,” he stated, “these damned emphatic
old women. I have never seen why politeness
should be the obligation of the young and rude-
ness the privilege of age."
“Why, Felix, she's not like that at all. I think
she’s rather a dear."
"She doesn't act like it.”
“Oh, she doesn’t mean anything by that. I think
she’s just always in a hurry."
“Why should she be?"
“Wouldn’t you be — at her age?"
He hadn't thought of it from that point of view.
“Maybe you’re right. Sands of time, and so forth.
What did the two of you talk about?"
“Oh — lots of things. When I expected the baby
and what we were going to name him and what
plans we had for him and things."
“I’ll bet she did most of the talking."
“No, I did most of the talking. Occasionally
she put in a question."
"Do you know, Phyllis," he said soberly, "one of
the things I like least about the whole business of
you and me and him is the quivering interest that
outsiders take in it. No more privacy than a guppy
in an aquarium.”
“I know what you mean, but I didn't feel that
way with her. We talked women talk. It was
nice."
“Hrummph!"
“Anyway, Bhe didn’t talk much about Theobald.
I told her we intended to have a little sister for
Theobald presently. She was very much inter-
ested. She wanted to know when, and what plans
we had for her. and what we intended to name her.
I hadn’t thought about that. What do you think
would be a nice name, Felix?"
“Egg knows — seems to me that’s rushing mat-
ters a little. I hope you told her that it would be
a long, long time."
“I did, but she seemed a little disappointed. But
I want to be myself for a while, after Theobald
comes. How do you like the name ‘Justina’?"
“Seems all right," he answered. “What about
it?"
“She suggested it.”
“She did? Whose baby does she think it’s going
to be?"
XIII.
"Now, Felix, don't get yourself excited."
“But, Claude, she’s been in there a long time!”
“Not very long.”
"But — Claude, you biologist johnnies should
have worked out something better than this.”
"Such as?”
“How should I know? Ectogenesis, maybe."
“We could practice ectogenesis,” Mordan an-
swered imperturbably, if we wished. It has been
done. But it would be a mistake."
“Egg’s sake — why?"
“Contra-survival in nature. The race would be
dependent on complex mechanical assistance to re-
produce. The time might come when it wasn't
available. Survivor types are types that survive in
difficult times as well as easy times. An ecto-
genetic race couldn’t cope with really hard, primi-
tive conditions. But ectogenesis isn't new — it’s
been in use for millions of years.”
“No, I suppose it — Huh? How long did you
say?"
"Millions of years. What is egg-laying but
ectogenesis? It's not efficient; it risks the infant
zygotes too hazardously. The great auk and the
dodo might still be alive today, if they had not
been ectogenetic. No, Felix, we mammals have
a better method."
“That’s all right for you to say," Felix replied
glumly. “It’s not your wife that's concerned."
Mordan forbore to answer this. He went on,
making conversation. "The same applies to any
technique which makes life easier at the expense
of hardiness. Ever hear of a bottle-baby, Felix?
No, you would not have — it's an obsolete term.
But it has to do with why the barbarians nearly
died out after the Second Genetic War. They
weren’t all killed, you know — there are always sur-
vivors, no matter how fierce the war. But they
were mostly bottle-babies, and the infant genera-
tion thinned out to almost nothing. Not enough
bottles and not enough cows. Their mothers
could not feed them."
Hamilton raised a hand irritably. Mordan’s
serene detachment — for such he assumed it to be —
from the events at hand annoyed him.
“The deuce with that stuff. Got another ciga-
rette?”
"You have one in your hand," Mordan pointed
out.
"Eh? So I have!” Quite unconsciously he
snuffed it out, and took another one from his own
pouch. Mordan smiled and said nothing.
“What time is it?"
"Fifteen forty.” ‘ .
“Is that all? It must be later."
“Wouldn’t you be less jumpy if you were in-
side?”
“Phyllis won’t let me. You know how she is,
82
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
Claude — a whim of steel.” He smiled, but there
was no gaiety in it.
“You are both rather dynamic and positive.”
“Oh, we get along. She lets me have my own
way, and later I find out I’ve done just what she
wanted me to do.”
Mordan had no difficulty in repressing his smile.
He was beginning to wonder at the delay himself.
He told himself that his interest was detached,
impersonal, scientific. But he had to go on telling
himself.
The door dilated; an attendant showed herself.
“You may come in now," she announced with brisk
cheeriness.
Mordan was closer to the door; he started to go
in first. Hamilton made a long arm, grabbed him
by the shoulder. “Hey! What goes on here?
Who’s the father in this deal, anyhow?” He
pushed himself into the lead. “You wait your
turn.”
She looked a little pale. “Hello, Felix.”
“Hello, Phil." He bent over her. “You all
right?”
“Of coufte I’m all right — this is what I’m for.”
She looked at him. “And get that silly smirk off
your face. After all, you didn’t invent father-
hood.”
“You’re sure you’re all right?”
“I'm fine. But I must look a fright."
"You look beautiful."
A voice at his ear said, “Don't you want to see
your son?”
"Eh? Oh — sure!" He turned and looked. Mor-
dan straightened up and stood out of the way.
The attendant held the baby up, half inviting him
to hold it, but he kept his arms down and looked
it over gingerly. It seemed to have the usual num-
ber of arms and legs, he thought, but that bright
orange color — well, he didn't know. Maybe it was
normal.
"Don’t you approve of him?” Phyllis asked
sharply.
“Huh? Sure, sure. It’s a beautiful baby. He
looks like you.”
"Babies,” said Phyllis, "don’t look like anyone,
except other babies."
“Oh, but he does!”
“Why, Master Hamilton,” put in the attendant,
“how you are sweating! Don't you feel well?”
Transferring the baby with casual efficiency to her
left arm, she picked up a pad and wiped his fore-
head. “Take it easy. Seventy years in this one
location and we’ve never lost a father."
Hamilton started to tell her that the gag was
ancient when the establishment was new, but he
restrained himself. He felt a little inhibited, a
rare thing for him. “We’ll take the child out for
a while,” the attendant went on. “Don’t stay
long.”
Mordan excused himself cheerily and left.
“Felix,” she said thoughtfully, “I’ve been think-
ing about something."
“So?”
"We’ve got to move."
“Why? I thought you liked our place.”
“I do. But I want a place in the country."
He looked suddenly apprehensive. “Now, dar-
ling, you know I'm not the bucolic type.”
"You don't have to move if you don’t want to.
But Theobald and I are going to. I want him to
be able to get himself dirty and have a dog and
things like that.”
"But why be so drastic? All development cen-
ters run to the air and sunshine and the good earth
motif.”
"I don’t want him spending all his time in de-
velopment centers. They're necessary, but they're
no substitute for family life."
"I was raised in development centers.”
"Take a look at yourself in the mirror.”
The child grew in no particularly spectacular
fashion. He crawled at a reasonable age, tried to
stand, burned his fingers a few times, tried to swal-
low the usual quota of unswallowable objects.
Mordan seemed satisfied. So did Phyllis. Felix
had no criteria.
At nine months Theobald attempted a few
words, then shut up for a long time. At fourteen
months he began speaking in sentences, short and
of his own structure, but sentences. The subjects
of his conversation, or, rather, his statements, were
consistently egocentric. Normal again — no one
expects an infant to write essays on the beauties
of altruism.
“That," remarked Hamilton to Mordan one day.
hooking a thumb toward where Theobald sat
naked in the grass, trying to remove the ears from
a nonco-operative and slightly indignant puppy,
“is your superchild, is he not?"
“Mm, yes.”
“When does he start doing his miracles?”
"He won’t do miracles. He is not unique in any
one respect; he is simply the best we can conceive
in every respect. He is uniformly normal, in the
best sense of the word — optimum, rather.”
"Hm-m-m. Well, I’m glad he doesn’t have ten-
tacles growing out of his ears, or a bulging fore-
head. or something like that. Come here, son.”
Theobald ignored him. He could be deaf when
he chose; he seemed to find it particularly diffi-
cult to hear the word “No." Hamilton got up,
went over and picked him up. He had no useful
purpose in mind; he just wanted to cuddle the
child for a while for his own amusement. Theo-
bald resisted being separated from the pup for a
moment, then accepted the change. He could soak
up a great deal of petting — when it suited him. If
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
83
it really did not suit him, he could be extremely
unco-operative.
Even to the extent of biting. He and his father
had put in a difficult but instructive half hour in
his fifteenth month settling the matter. Beyond
cautioning Felix to be careful not to damage the
brat, Phyllis had let them have it out. Theobald
did not bite any more, but Felix had a permanent,
small, ragged scar on his left thumb.
Hamilton was almost inordinately fond of the
child, although he was belligerently offhand in his
manner. It hurt him that the child did not really
seem to care anything about him and would as
readily accept petting and endearments from
“Uncle Claude" — or a total stranger — if he hap-
pened to be in the mood to accept anything of the
sort.
On Mordan’s advice and by Phyllis’ decision
(Felix was not offered a vote in the matter — she
was quite capable of reminding him that she, and
not he, was a psychopediatrician) Theobald was
not taught to read any earlier than the usual age
of thirty months, although experimental testing
showed that he could comprehend the basic idea
of abstracted symbols a little earlier than that:
She used the standard extensionalized technique
of getting a child to comprehend symbolic group-
ing-by-abstracted-characteristics while emphasiz-
ing individual differences. Theobald was rather
bored with the matter and appeared to make no
progress at all for the first three weeks. Then he
seemed suddenly to get the idea that there might
be something in it for him — apparently by recog-
nizing his own name on a stat which Felix had
transmitted from his office. This point is not cer-
tain, but shortly thereafter he took the lead in his
own instruction and displayed the concentrated
interest he was capable of.
Nine weeks after the instruction began it was
finished. Reading was an acquired art; further in-
struction would merely have gotten in his way.
Phyllis let him be and restricted her efforts in the
matter to seeing to it that only such reading mat-
ter was left in his reach as she wished him to at-
tempt. Otherwise he would have read anything
he could lay hands on; as it was she had to steal
scrolls from him when she wanted him to exercise
or eat.
Felix worried about the child’s obsession with
printed matter. Phyllis told him not to. “It will
wear off. We’ve suddenly extended his psycho
field; he’s got to explore it for a while.”
"It didn’t wear off with me. I still read when
I should be doing something else. It's a vice."
Theobald read stumblingly and with much sub-
vocalization and was, of course, forced to call for
help frequently when he ran on to symbols new
to him and not sufficiently defined by context. A
home is not as well equipped for extensional in-
AST— 6E
struction as a development center. In a center no
words appear in a primer which are not repre-
sented by examples which can be pointed to, or,
if the words are action symbols, the actions are
such that they can be performed there and then.
But Theobald was through with primers before
he should have been and their home, although com-
fortably large, would have needed to be of museum
size to accommodate samples in groups of every
referent he inquired about. Phyllis’ resource-
fulness and histrionic ability were stretched to the
limit, but she stuck to the cardinal principle of
semantic pedagogy: Never define a new symbol in
terms of symbols already known if it is possible
to point to a referent instead.
The child's eidetic memory first became evident
in connection with reading. He read rapidly, if
badly, and remembered what he read. Not for him
was the childish custom of cherishing and re-
reading favorite books. A once-read scroll was to
him an empty sack; he wanted another.
“What does ’infatuated' mean, mamma?” He
made this inquiry in the presence of his father and
Mordan.
“Hm-m-m," she began guardedly, “tell me what
words you found it sitting with."
“ ‘It is not that I am merely infatuated with you,
as that old goat Mordan seems to think — ’ I don't
understand that either. Is Uncle Claude a goat?
He doesn’t look like one.”
"What,” said Felix, “has that child been reading
now?" Mordan said nothing, but he cocked a brow
at Felix.
“I think I recognize it," Phyllis said in an aside
to Felix. Then, turning back to the child, she
added, "Where did you find it? Tell Phyllis.”
No answer.
“Was it in Phyllis’ desk?" She knew that it had
been; there was secreted in there a bundle of stats,
mementos of the days before she and Felix had
worked out their differences. She had the habit of
re-reading them privately and secretly. “Tell
Phyllis.”
“Yes.” 4
"That’s out of bounds, you know.”
“You didn't see me," he stated triumphantly.
"No, that is true.” She thought rapidly. She
wished to encourage his truthfulness, but to place
a deterrent on disobedience. To be sure, dis-
obedience was more often a virtue than a sin, but —
Oh, well ! She tabled the matter.
Felix muttered, “That child seems to have no
moral sense whatsoever.”
“Have you?” she asked him, and turned back to
Theobald.
“There was lots more, mamma. Want to hear it?”
“Not just now. Let’s answer your two questions
first.”
"But, Phyllis,” Felix interrupted.
“Wait, Felix. I’ve got to answer his questions.”
84
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Suppose you and I step out into the garden for
a smoke.” Mordan suggested. “Phyllis is going to
be fairly busy for a while.”
Quite busy. “Infatuated" was. in itself, quite
a hurdle, but how to explain to a child in his forty-
second month the allegorical use of symbols? She
was not entirely successful; Theobald referred to
Mordan indiscriminately thereafter for a long time
as “Uncle Claude” or "Old Goat.”
Eidetic memory is a Mendelian recessive. Both
Phyllis and Felix had the gene-group for it from
one Ancestor each ; Theobald had it from both his
parents, by selection. The potentiality, masked as
recessive in each of his parents, was therefore ef-
fective in him. Both “recessive” and “dominant"
are relative terms; dominants do not cancel re-
cessives like symbols in an equation. Both Phyllis
and Felix had excellent, unusual memories. Theo-
bald's memory was well-nigh perfect.
Recessive Mendelian characteristics are usually
undesirable ones. The reason is simple — dominant
characteristics get picked over by natural selection
every generation. (It should be emphasized again
at this point that artificial selection of genes in no
way puts a stop to natural selection. Natural se-
lection — the dying out of the poorly equipped —
goes on day in and day out, inexorable and auto-
matic. It is as tireless, as inescapable, as entropy.)
A really bad dominant will weed itself out of the
race in a few generations. The worst dominants
appear only as original mutations, since they either
kill their bearers, or preclude reproduction. Em-
bryo-cancer is such a one — complete sterility is an-
other. But a recessive may be passed on from gen-
eration to generation, masked and not subjected to
natural selection. In time a generation may ar-
rive in which a child receives the recessive from
both parents — up it pops, strong as ever. That is
why the earlier geneticists found it so hard to
eliminate such recessives as hemophilia and deaf-
mutism; it was impossible, until the genes in ques-
tion were charted by extremely difficult indirect
and inferential means, to tell whether or not an
adult, himself in perfect health, was actually
“clean." He might pass on something grisly to his
children. Nobody knew.
Felix demanded of Mordan why, in view of the
bad reputation of recessives, eidetic memory
should happen to be recessive rather than domi-
nant.
“I’ll answer that twice.” said Mordan. "In the
first place the specialists are still arguing as to
why some things are recessives, and others domi-
nants. In the second place, why call eidetic mem-
ory a desirable trait?”
“But — for Egg’s sake! You selected for it for
Baldy!”
“To be sure we did — for Theobald. ‘Desirable’
is a relative term. Desirable for whom ? Complete
memory is an asset only if you have the mind to
handle it; otherwise it’s a curse. One used to find
such cases occasionally, before your time and mine
— poor simple souls who were bogged down in the
complexities of their own experience; they knew
every tree but could not find the forest. Besides
that, forgetting is an anodyne and a blessing to
most people. They don’t need to remember much
and they don’t. It’s different with Theobald.”
They had been talking in Mordan’s office. He
took from his desk a file of memoranda, arranged
systematically on perhaps a thousand small
punched cards. "See this? I haven’t looked it
over yet — it’s data the technicians supply me with.
Its arrangement is quite as significant as its con-
tent — more so, perhaps.” He took the file and
dumped the cards out onto the floor. “The data
is still all there, but what use is it now?" He
pressed a stud on his desk; his new file secretary
entered. "Albert, will you please have these fed
into the Borter again? I’m afraid I’ve randomed
them.”
Albert looked surprised, but said, "Sure, chief,"
and took the pied cards away.
“Theobald has the brain power, to speak loosely,
to arrange his data, to be able to find it when he
wants it, and to use it. He will be able to see how
what he knows is related in its various parts, and
to abstract from the mass significantly related de-
tails. Eidetic memory is a desirable trait in him."
No doubt — but sometimes it did not seem so to
Hamilton. As the child grew older he developed
an annoying habit of correcting his elders about
minutiae, in which he was always maddeningly ac-
curate. “No, mother, it was not last Wednesday;
it was last Thursday. I remember because that
was the day that daddy took me walking up past
the reservoir and we saw a pretty lady dressed in
a green jumpsuit and daddy smiled at her and she
stopped and asked me what my name was and I
told her my name was Theobald and that daddy’s
name was Felix and that I was four years and one
month old. And daddy laughed and she laughed
and then daddy said — "
“That will do," said Felix. "You’ve made your
point. It was Thursday. But it is not necessary
to correct people on little things like that.”
“But when they’re wrong I have to tell them!”
Felix let it ride, but he reflected that Theobald
might need to be inordinately fast with a gun when
he was older.
Felix had developed a fondness for country life,
little as he had wanted to undertake it. Had it not
been for his continuous work on the Great Re-
search he might have taken up horticulture seri-
ously. There was something deeply satisfying, he
found, in making a garden do what he wanted it
to do.
He would have spent all his holidays fussing
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
85
with his plants, if Phyllis had concurred. But her
holidays were less frequent than his, since she had
resumed putting in one shift a day at the nearest
primary development center as soon as Theobald
was old enough to need the knocking around he
would get from other children. When she did
have a holiday she liked to go somewhere — a fly-
ing picnic, usually.
They had to live near the Capital, because of
Felix’s work, but the Pacific was only a little over
five hundred kilometers west of them. It was con-
venient to pack a lunch, get to the beach in time
for a swim and a nice, long, lazy bake, then eat.
Felix wanted to see the boy’s reaction the first
time he saw the ocean. “Well, son, this is it. What
do you think of it?"
Theobald scowled out at the breakers. "It’s all
right," he grudged.
“What’s the matter?”
“The water looks sick. And the sun ought to
be off that way, not here. And where’s the big
trees?”
"What big trees?”
"You know.”
"I’m sorry; I don’t.”
“The high slim ones, with big bushes at the top.”
"Hm-m-m — what’s wrong with the water?”
"It ain’t blue."
Hamilton walked back to where Phyllis sprawled
on the sand. “Can you tell me,” he said slowly,
“whether or not Baldy has ever seen stereos of
royal palms — on a beach, a tropical beach?"
"Not that I know of. Why?"
“Think back. Did you use such a picture to ex-
tensionalize for him?”
“No, I’m sure of that."
“You know what he’s read — has he seen any flat-
picture like that?"
She checked back through her own excellent and
well-arranged memory. “No, I would have re-
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
36
membered it. I would never have put such a pic-
ture in his way without explaining it to him."
The incident occurred before Theobald had been
entered at the development center; what he had
seen, he had seen at home. Of course it was pos-
sible that he had seen it in a news or story cast in
the receiver at home, but he could not start the
machine himself and neither of them recalled such
a scene. Nevertheless, it was funny, damned
funny.
“What did you start to say, dear?"
Hamilton gave a slight start. "Nothing, nothing
at all.”
“What kind of ‘nothing'?”
He shook his head. "Too fantastic. My mind
was wandering.”
He went back to the boy and attempted to pump
him for details in an attempt to ferret out the
mystery. But Theobald was not talking. In fact,
he was not even listening. He said so.
On a similar occasion but much later an event
occurred which was quite as disturbing, but a little
more productive. Felix and the boy had been
splashing in the surf, until they were quite tired.
At least Felix was, which made a majority with
only one dissent. They lay down on the sand and
let the sun dry them. Presently the salt drying
on the skin made them itch, as it has a habit of
doing.
Felix scratched Theobald between the shoulder
blades — that awkward spot — and reflected to him-
self how catlike the child was in many ways, even
to the sybaritic way in which he accepted this
small sensuous pleasure. Just now it suited him
to be petted; a moment later he might be as
naughty and distant as a Persian tom. Or, like the
cat, he might decide to cuddle.
Then Felix lay on his stomach, Theobald strad-
dled his back and returned the favor. Felix was
beginning to feel rather catlike himself — it felt so
good! — when he began to be aware of a curious
and almost inexplicable phenomenon :
When one human monkey does another the great
service of scratching him, delightful as it is, it
never quite hits the spot. With infuriating ob-
tuseness, despite the most careful coaching, the
scratcher will scratch just above, just below, all
around the right spot, but never, never, never quite
on it, until, in sheer frustration, the scratchee will
nearly dislocate his shoulder going after it for
himself.
Felix was giving Theobald no instructions; in
fact, he was nearly faling asleep under the warm
relaxing ecstasy of his son’s ministrations, when
he suddenly snapped to alert attention.
Theobald was scratching where Felix itched!
The exact spot. An area of sensation had only
to show up for him to pounce on it and scratch
it out of existence.
This was another matter that had to be taken up
with Phyllis. He got up and explained what had
happened to her, attempting the meanwhile to keep
it from the child’s attention by suggesting that he
go for a run down the beach — "But don’t go in
more than ankle deep!”
“Just try him,” he added, when he had told her
of it. “He can do it. He really can.”
"I’d like to,” she said. “But I can't. I’m sorry
to say that I am still fresh and clean and free from
vulgar distresses.”
“Phyllis — ”
“Yes. Felix?"
"What kind of a person can scratch where an-
other person itches?"
"An angel.”
“No, seriously.”
“You tell me."
"You know as' well as I do. That kid’s a tele-
path!"
They both looked down the beach at a small,
skinny, busy silhouette. "I know how the hen felt
that hatched the ducks,” said Phyllis softly. She
got quickly to her feet. “I’m going in and get
some salt on me, and let it dry. I’ve got to find out
about this.”
Hamilton Felix took his son into the city the
next day. There were men attached to the Great
Research who knew much more about such things
than either he or Phyllis; he wished them to ex-
amine the boy. He took Theobald to his office,
supplied him with a scroll and a reader — a dodge
which would tie him to one spot almost as effec-
tively as if he were chained down— and called
Jacobstein Ray by telephone. Jacobstein was in
charge of a team investigating telepathy and re-
lated phenomena.
He explained to Jake that he was unable to leave
his own office at the moment. Could Jake drop
over, or was he tied up? Jake could and would;
he arrived a few minutes later. The two men
stepped into an adjoining room, out of earshot of
the child. Felix explained what had taken place
on the beach and suggested that Jake look into it.
Jake was willing and interested. “But don’t ex-
pect too much from it," he cautioned. "We’ve
demonstrated telepathy in young children time and
again, under circumstances which made it a statis-
tical certainty that they were receiving informa-
tion by no known physical means. But there was
never any control in the business, the child was
never able to explain what was going on, and the
ability faded away to nothing as the child grew up
and became more coherent. It seems to shrivel
away just like the thymus gland.”
Hamilton looked alert. “Thymus gland? Any
correlation?”
“Why, no. I just used that as a figure of speech."
“Mightn’t there be?”
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
87
"It seems most unlikely.”
“Everything about this business seems most un-
likely. How about putting a crew on it? A good
biostatistician and one of your operators?”
“I will if you wish.”
“Good. I’ll stat an open voucher to your office.
It’s probably a blind alley, but you never know!”
(Let us add hastily that it was a blind alley.
Nothing ever came of it, but a slight addition to
the enormous mass of negative information which
the layman is usually not aware of, but which con-
stitutes the main body of scientific knowledge. A
rat finds its way out of a maze by eliminating blind
alleys.)
Felix and Jake went back into the room where
Theobald sat reading. They seated themselves
first, in order to be on the same level as the child,
and Felix performed the introduction with proper
attention to the enormous and vulnerable dignity
of a child. He then said:
“Look, sport, dad wants you to go with Jake
and help him with some things for an hour or so.
How about it?”
“Why?”
That was a tough one. With less-than-adult
minds it had been found to be optimum procedure
to keep them from knowing the purpose of the
experimentation. “Jake wants to find out some
things about the way your mind works. He’ll talk
with you about it. Well — will you help him?”
Theobald thought about it.
“It will be a favor to dad.” Phyllis could have
warned him against that approach. Theobald had
been rather slow in reaching the degree of social
integration necessary to appreciate the cool pleas-
ure of conferring benefits on others.
“Will you do me a favor?” he countered.
“What do you want?”
“A flop-eared buck.” The boy had been raising
rabbits, with some adult assistance; but his grandi-
ose plans, if unchecked, would have resulted in
their entire home being given over to fat, furry
rodents. Nevertheless, Hamilton was somewhat
relieved to find the favor desired was no larger.
“Sure thing, sport. You could have had one any-
how.”
Theobald made no answer, but stood up, signify-
ing his willingness to get on with it.
After they had gone Hamilton considered the
matter for a moment. A new buck rabbit was all
right; he did not mind that as much as he would
have minded a new doe. But something had to be
done fairly soon, or else his garden would have to
be abandoned.
Theobald seemed to be working out, with the
busy and whole-hearted collaboration of his rab-
bits, an interesting but entirely erroneous neo-
Mendelian concept of inherited characteristics.
Why, he wanted to know, did white bunnies some-
times have brown babies? Felix pointed out that
a brown buck had figured in the matter, but soon
bogged down, and turned the matter over to Mor-
dan — accepting as inevitable the loss of face in-
volved.
Theobald, he knew, was quite capable now of
being interested in the get of a flop-eared buck.
The boy had formulated an interesting, but de-
cidedly specialized, arithmetic to keep his records
of rabbits, based on the proposition that one plus
one equals at least five. Hamilton had discovered
it by finding symbols in the boy’s rabbit notebook
with which he was unfamiliar. Theobald boredly
interpreted them for him.
Hamilton showed the records to Monroe-Alpha
the next time Monroe-Alpha and Marion showed
up at his home. He had regarded it as an amusing
and insignificant joke, but Clifford took it with
his usual dead seriousness. “Isn’t it about time
you started him on arithmetic?”
“Why, I don't think so. He is a little young for
it — he’s hardly well into mathematical analysis.”
Theobald had been led into mathematical sym-
bology by the conventional route of generalized
geometry, analysis, and the calculi. Naturally, he
had not been confronted with the tedious, inane,
and specialized mnemonics of practical arithmetic
— he was hardly more than a baby.
“I don’t think he is too young for it. I had de-
vised a substitute for positional notation when I
was about his age. I imagine he can take it, if you
don't ask him to memorize operation tables.” Mon-
roe-Alpha was unaware that the child had an
eidetic memory and Hamilton passed the matter
by. He had no intention of telling Monroe-Alpha
anything about Theobald’s genetic background.
While custom did not actually forbid such discus-
sion, good taste, he felt, did. Let the boy alone —
let him keep his private life private. He and
Phyllis knew, the geneticists involved had to
know, the Planners had had to know — since this
was a star line. Even that he regretted, for it had
brought such intrusions as the visit of that old hag
Carvala.
Theobald himself would know nothing, or very
little, of his ancestral background until he was a
grown man. He might not inquire into it, or have
it brought to his attention, until he reached some-
thing around the age Felix had been when Mordan
called Felix's attention to his own racial signifi-
cance.
It was better so. The pattern of a man’s in-
herited characteristics was racially important and
inescapable anyhow, but too much knowledge of
it, too much thinking about it, could be suffocat-
ing to the individual. Look at Cliff — damned near
went off the beam entirely just from thinking
about his great grandparents. Well, Marion had
fixed that.
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
No, it was not good to talk too much about such
things. He himself had talked too much a short
time before, and had been sorry ever since. He
had been telling Mordan his own point of view
about Phyllis having any more children — after the
baby girl to come, of course. Phyllis and he had
not yet come to agreement about it; Mordan had
backed up Phyllis. “I would like for you two to
have at least four children, preferably six. More
would be better, but we probably would not have
time enough to select properly for that many.”
Hamilton almost exploded. “It seems to me that
you make plans awfully easy — for other people.
I haven’t noticed you doing your bit. You are
pretty much of a star line yourself — how come?
Is this a one-way proposition?”
Mordan had kept his serenity. “I have not re-
frained. My plasm is on deposit, and available if
wanted. Every moderator in the country saw my
chart, in the usual course of routine."
“The fact remains that you haven’t done much
personally about children.”
“No. No, that is true. Martha and I have so
many, many children in our district, and so many
yet to come, that we hardly have time to concen-
trate on one."
From the peculiar phraseology Hamilton gained
a sudden bit of insight. “Say . . . you and Martha
are married — aren’t you?”
“Yes. For twenty-three years."
“Well, then . . . but, why — ”
“We can't,” Mordan said flatly, with just a shade
less than his usual calm. “She’s a mutation . . .
sterile."
Hamilton's ears still burned to think that his
big mouth had maneuvered his friend into making
such a naked disclosure. He had never guessed
the relationship; Martha never called Claude any-
thing but “chief”; they used no words of endear-
ment, nor let it creep otherwise into their manner.
Still, it explained a lot of things — the rapportlike
co-operation between the technician and the syn-
thesist, the fact that Mordan had shifted to ge-
netics after starting a brilliant career in social
administration, Mordan’s intense and fatherly in-
terest in his charges.
He realized with a slight shock that Claude and
Martha were as much parents of Theobald as were
Phyllis and himself — foster parents, godparents.
Mediator parents might be the right term.
They were mediator parents to hundreds of
thousands, he didn’t know how many.
But this wasn’t getting his work done — and he
would have to go home early today, because of
Theobald. He turned to his desk. A memoran-
dum caught his eye — from himself to himself.
Hm-m-m — he would have to get after that. Better
talk to Carruthers. He swung around toward the
phone.
“Chief?”
“Yes, Felix."
“I was talking with Dr. Thorgsen the other day,
and I got an idea — may not be much in it.”
“Give." Way out on far Pluto, the weather is
cold. The temperature rarely rises above eighteen
centigrade degrees absolute even on the side to-
ward the sun. And that refers to high noon in
the open sunlight. Much of the machinery of the
observatories is exposed to this intense cold. Ma-
chinery that will work on Terra will not work on
Pluto, and vice versa. The laws of physics seem
to be invariable but the characteristics of mate-
rials change with changes in temperature — con-
sider ice and water, a mild example.
Lubricating oil is a dry powder at such tempera-
tures. Steel isn’t steel. The exploring scientists
had to devise new technologies before Pluto could
be conquered.
Not only for mobiles but for stabiles as well —
such as electrical equipment. Electrical equip-
ment depends on, among other factors, the resist-
ance characteristics of conductors; extreme cold
lowers the electrical resistance of metals amaz-
ingly. At thirteen degrees centigrade absolute
lead becomes a superconductor — it has no resis-
tance whatsoever. An electric current induced in
such lead seems to go on forever, without damping.
There are many other such peculiarities. Hamil-
ton did not go into them — it was a sure thing that
a brilliant synthesist such as his chief had all the
gross factB about such matters. The main fact was
this: Pluto was a natural laboratory for low-tem-
perature research, not only for the benefit of the
observatories but for every other purpose.
One of the classic difficulties of science has to
do with the fact that a research man can always
think of things he wants to measure before instru-
ments for the purpose have been devised. Genetics
remained practically at a standstill for a century
before ultramicroscopy reached the point where
genes could really be seen. But the peculiar quali-
ties of superconductors and near-superconductors
gave physicists an opportunity, using such chilled
metals in new instruments, to build gadgets which
would detect phenomena more subtle than ever
before detected.
Thorgsen and his colleagues had stellar bo-
lometers so accurate and so sensitive as to make
the readings of earlier instruments look like a
casual horseback guess. He claimed to be able to
measure the heat from a flushed cheek at ten
parsecs. The colony on Pluto even had an elec-
tromagnetic radiation receiver which would —
sometimes — enable them to receive messages from
Terra, if the Great Egg smiled and everyone kept
their fingers crossed.
But telepathy, if it was anything physical at all
—whatever “physical” may mean! — should be de-
tectable by some sort of a gadget. That the gadget
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
89
would need to be extremely sensitive seemed a
foregone conclusion; therefore, Pluto seemed a
likely place to develop one.
There was even some hope to go on. An instru-
ment — Hamilton did not remember what it had
been — had been perfected there, had worked sat-
isfactorily, and then had performed very errati-
cally indeed — when the two who had perfected it
attempted to demonstrate it in the presence of a
crowd of colleagues. It seemed sensitive to living
people.
To living people. Equivalent masses, of blood
temperature and similar radiating surfaces, did not
upset it. But it grew querulous in the presence of
human beings. It was dubbed a “Life Detector”;
the director of the colony saw possibilities in it
and instigated further research.
Hamilton’s point to Carruthers was this: Might
not the so-called life detector be something that
was sensitive to whatever it was they called te-
lepathy? Carruthers thought it possible. Would
it not then be advisable to instigate research along
that line on Terra? Decidedly. Or would it be
better to send a team out to Pluto, where low tem-
perature research was so much more handy? Go
ahead on both lines, of course.
Hamilton pointed out that it would be a year
and a half until the next regular ship to Pluto.
“Never mind that," Carruthers told him. "Plan
to send a special. The Board will stand for it."
Hamilton cleared the phone, turned it to record-
ing, and spoke for several minutes, giving instruc-
tions to two of his bright young assistants. It was
convenient, he thought, to have really adequate
staff assistance. He referred to his next point of
agenda.
In digging back into the literature of the race
it had been noted that the borderline subjects of
the human spirit with which he was now dealing
had once occupied much more of the attention of
the race than now was the case. Spiritism, appari-
tions, reports of the dead appearing in dreams
with messages which checked out, "Ghosties, and
Ghoulies, and Things that go Flop in the Dark”
had once obsessed the attention of many. Much
of the mass of pseudo-data seemed to be psycho-
pathic. But not all of it. This chap Flammarion,
for example, a professional astronomer (or was he
an astrologer? — there used to be such, he knew, be-
fore space flight was developed) anyhow, a man
with his head screwed on tight, a man with a basic
appreciation for the scientific method even in those
dark ages. Flammarion had collected an enormous
amount of data, which, if even one percent of it
was true, proved survival of the ego after physical
death beyond any reasonable doubt.
It gave him a lift just to read about it.
Hamilton knew that the loose stories of bygone
days did not constitute evidence of the first order,
SNOWBALLS
IN
SUMMEB
O On the City of Tulso, in mid-Pociflc waters, the
heat of a midsummer day beat down unmercifully.
Yot Johnny Littlejohn was hurling snowballs!
It was the start of a weird puzile that landed Doc Sav-
age and his aids on a South Sea atoll in the hands of
modern pirates. It's one of his best: PIRATE ISLE, in
the May issue of
BOC SAVAGE
I0e A COPY AT ALL NEWSSTANDS
90
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
but some of it, after examination by psychiatric
semanticians, could be used as evidence of the sec-
ond order. In any case, the experience of the past
might give many a valuable clue for further re-
search. The hardest part of this aspect of the
Great Research was to know where to start look-
ing.
There were a couple of old books, for example,
by a man named Doon, or Dunn, or something of
the sort — the changes in speech symbols made the
name uncertain — who had tediously collected rec-
ords of forerunner dreams for more than a quar-
ter of a century. But he had died, no one had
followed up his work, and it had been forgotten.
Never mind — Dunn's patience would be vindi-
cated; over ten thousand careful men, in addition
to their other activities, made a practice of record-
ing their dreams immediately on wakening, be-
fore speaking to anyone or even getting out of bed.
If dreams ever opened a window into the future,
the matter would soon be settled, conclusively.
Hamilton himself tried to keep such records.
Unfortunately, he rarely dreamed. No matter —
others did, and he was in touch with them.
The old books Hamilton wished to have perused
were mostly obscure and few translations had ever
been made; idiom presented a hazard. There were
scholars of comparative lingo, of course, but even
for them the job was difficult. Fortunately, there
was immediately at hand a man who could read
Anglish of the year 1926 and for at least the cen-
tury preceding that date — a particularly rich cen-
tury for such research, as the scientific method
was beginning to be appreciated by some but the
interest in such matters was still high. Smith
John Darlington — or J. Darlington Smith, as he
preferred to be called. Hamilton had co-opted
him.
Smith did not want to do it. He was very busy
with his feetball industry; he had three associa-
tions of ten battle groups each, and a fourth form-
ing. His business was booming; he was in a fair
way to becoming as rich as he wanted to be, and
he disliked to spare the time.
But he would do it — if the man who gave him
his start in business insisted. Felix insisted.
Felix telephoned him next. “Hello. Jack."
“Howdy, Felix.”
“Do you have any more for me?”
“I’ve a stack of spools shoulder high."
“Good. Tube them over, will you?”
“Sure. Say, Felix, this stuff is awful, most of it."
“I don’t doubt it. But think how much ore must
be refined to produce a gram of native radium.
Well, I’ll clear now.”
“Wait a minute, Felix. I got into a jam last
night. I wonder if you could give me some advice.”
“Certainly. Give.” It appeared that Smith, who,
in spite of his financial success, was a brassarded
man and technically a control natural, had inad-
vertently given offense to an armed citizen by
refusing to give way automatically in a public
place. The citizen had lectured Smith on eti-
quette. Smith had never fully adjusted himself to
the customs of a different culture; he had done a
most inurbane thing — he had struck the citizen
with his closed fist, knocking him down and
bloodying his nose.
Naturally, there was the deuce to pay, and all
big bills.
The citizen's next friend had called the follow-
ing morning and presented Smith with a formal
challenge. Smith must either accept and shoot it
out, apologize acceptably, or perforce be evicted
from the city bodily by the citizen and his friends,
with monitors looking on to see that the customs
were maintained.
“What ought I to do?"
“I would advise you to apologize." Hamilton
saw no way out of it; to advise him to fight was
to suggest suicide. Hamilton had no scruples
about suicide, but he judged correctly that Smith
preferred to live.
“But I can’t apologize, Felix. I was ahead of
him in line. Honest, I was.”
“But you were brassarded.”
"But — Look, Felix, I want to shoot it out with
him. Will you act for me?”
“I will if you request it. He’ll kill you, you
know.”
“Maybe not. I might happen to beat him to the
draw."
“Not in a set duel you won't. The guns are
cross-connected. Your gun won’t burn until the
referee flashes the signal."
“I’m fairly fast.”
“You’re outclassed. You don’t play feetball
yourself, you know. And you know why.”
Smith knew. He had planned to play, as well
as manage and coach, when the enterprise was
started. A few encounters with the men he had
hired soon convinced him that an athlete of his
own period was below average in this present pe-
riod. In particular his reflexes were late. He bit
his lip and said nothing.
“You sit tight,” said Felix, “and don’t go out
of your apartment. I’ll do a little calling and see
what can be worked out.”
The next friend was polite but regretful. Aw-
fully sorry not to oblige Master Hamilton but he
was acting under instructions. Could Master
Hamilton speak with his principal? Now, really
that was hardly procedure. But he admitted that
the circumstances were unusual — give him a few
minutes, then he would phone back.
Hamilton received permission to speak to the
principal; called him. No, the challenge could
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
91
not be lifted — and the conversation was strictly
under the rose. Procedure, you know. He was
willing to accept a formal apology; he did not
really wish to kill the man.
Hamilton explained that Smith would not accept
the humiliation — could not, because of his psycho-
logical background. He was a barbarian and sim-
ply could not see things from a gentleman’s point
of view. Hamilton identified Smith as the Man
from the Past.
The principal nodded. “I know that now. Had
I known that before, I would have ignored his
rudeness — treated him like a child. But I didn't
know. And now, in view of what he did — well,
my dear sir, I can hardly ignore it, can I?"
Hamilton conceded that he was entitled to satis-
faction, but suggested that it would make him pub-
licly unpopular to kill Smith. “He is rather a pub-
lic darling, you know. I am inclined to think that
many will regard it as murder to force him to
fight."
The citizen had thought of that. Rather a di-
lemma, wasn’t it?
"How would you like to combat him physically
— punish him the way he damaged you, only more
so?"
"Really, my dear sir!"
“Just an idea,” said Hamilton. “You might
think about it. May we have three days' grace?"
"More, if you like. I told you I was not anxious
to push it to a duel. I simply want to curb his
manners. One might run into him anywhere.”
Hamilton let it go at that, and called Mordan,
a common thing when he was puzzled. “What do
you think I ought to do, Claude?”
“Well, there is no real reason why you should
not let him go ahead and get himself killed. In-
dividually, it's his life; socially, he's no loss."
“You forget that I am using him as a translator.
Besides, I rather like him. He is pathetically gal-
lant in the face of a world he does not understand.”
"Mm-m-m — well, in that case, we’ll try to find
a solution.”
"Do you know, Claude,” Felix said seriously, “I
am beginning to have my doubts about this whole
custom. Maybe I’m getting old, but, while it’s lots
of fun for a bachelor to go swaggering around
town, it looks a little different to me now. I’ve
even thought of assuming the brassard.”
“Oh, no, Felix, you mustn’t do that!”
"Why not? A lot of people do.”
“It’s not for you. The brassard is an admission
of defeat, an acknowledgment of inferiority.”
“What of it? I’d still be myself. I don’t care
what people think."
“You’re mistaken, son. To believe that you can
live free of your cultural matrix is one of the
easiest fallacies to fall into, and has some of the
worst consequences. You are a part of your group
whether you like it or not, and you are bound by
its customs.”
“But they’re only customs!"
"Don’t belittle customs. It is easier to change
Mendelian characteristics than it is to change cus-
toms. If you try to ignore them, they bind you
when you least expect it.”
“But dammit ! how can there be any progress if
we don’t break customs?"
"Don’t break them — avoid them. Take them into
your considerations, examine how they work, and
make them serve you. You don’t need to disarm
yourself to stay out of fights. If you did you
would get into fights — I know you! — the way
Smith did. An armed man need not fight. I
haven't drawn my gun for more years than I can
remember.”
“Come to think about it, I haven’t pulled mine
in four years or more.”
“That’s the idea. But don't assume that the cus-
tom of going armed is useless. Customs always
have a reason behind them, sometimes good, some-
times bad. This is a good one."
“Why do you say that? I used to think so, but
I have my doubts now."
“Well, in the first place an armed society is a
polite society. Manners are good when one may
have to back up his acts with his life. For me, po-
liteness is a sine qua non of civilization. That's
a personal evaluation only. But gun fighting has
a strong biological use. We do not have enough
things that kill off the weak and the stupid these
days. But to stay alive as an armed citizen a man
has to be either quick \yith his wits or with his
hands, preferably both. It's a good thing.
"Of course," he continued, "our combativeness
has to do with our ancestry and our history.” Ham-
ilton nodded; he knew that Mordan referred to the
Second Genetic War. “But we have preserved
that inheritance intentionally. The Planners
would not stop the wearing of arms if they could.”
“Maybe so,” Felix answered slowly, “but it does
seem like there ought to be a better way to do it.
This way is pretty sloppy. Sometimes the by-
standers get burned."
"The alert ones don’t," Mordan pointed out.
“But don’t expect human institutions to be effi-
cient. They never have been; it is a mistake to
think that they can be made so— in this millen-
nium or the next."
“Why not?”
“Because we are sloppy, individually — and
therefore collectively. Take a look at a cageful of
monkeys, at your next opportunity. Watch how
they do things and listen to them chatter. You’ll
find it quite instructive. You’ll understand hu-
mans better.”
Felix grinned. "I think I see what you mean.
92
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
But what am I to do about Smith?”
“if he gets out of this, I think he had better
wear a gun after this. Perhaps you can impress
on him then that his life will depend on the soft-
ness of his words. But for the present — I know
this chap he challenged. Suppose you suggest me
as referee."
‘‘Are you going to let them fight?"
“In my own way. I think I can arrange for them
to fight barehanded." Mordan had delved back
into his encyclopedic memory and had come out
with a fact that Hamilton would not fully appre-
ciate. Smith had come from a decadent period in
which hand fighting had become stylized as fist
fighting. No doubt he was adept in it. It was nec-
essary for one not to use the gun with which he
was adept; it was equitable that the other not use
fists, were he adept in their use. So Mordan
wished to referee that he might define the rules.
It is not necessary to give overmuch attention
to that rather unimportant and uncolorful little
man. J. Darlington Smith. Hamilton was forced
to withdraw as next friend, since Carruthers
needed him at the time, and did not, therefore,
see the encounter. He learned of it first by dis-
covering that Smith was immobilized in an infir-
mary, suffering from some rather unusual wounds.
But he did not quite lose the sight of his left eye
and his other damages were mostly gone in a cou-
ple of weeks.
All of which happened some days later.
Hamilton turned back to his work. There were
various little matters to attend to. One team of
researchers in particular belonged to him alone.
He had noticed when he was a boy that a physical
object, especially a metallic one, brought near to
his forehead above the bridge of the nose seemed
to produce some sort of a response inside the head,
not connected, apparently, with the physiological
senses. He had not thought of it for many years,
until the Great Research had caused him to think
of such things.
Was it real, or was it imagination? It was a
mere tightening of the nerves, an uneasy feeling,
but distinct and different from any other sensa-
tion. Did other people have it? What caused it?
Did it mean anything?
He mentioned it to Carruthers who had said,
“Well, don't stand there speculating about it. Put
a crew to work on it.”
He had. They had already discovered that the
feeling was not uncommon but rarely talked about.
It was such a little thing and hard to define. Sub-
jects had been found who had it in a more marked
degree than most — Hamilton ceased being a sub-
ject for experimentation himself.
He called the crew leader. "Anything new,
George?”
“Yes and no. We have found a chap who can
distinguish between different metals nearly eighty
percent of the time, and between wood and metal
every time. But we are still no nearer finding out
what makes it tick.”
“Need anything?"
“No."
“Call me if you need me. Helpful Felix the
Cheerful Cherub."
“O. K.”
It must not be supposed that Hamilton Felix
was very important to the Great Research. He was
not the only idea man that Carruthers had, not by
several offices. It is probable that the Great Re-
search would have gone on in much the same
fashion, even during his lifetime, even if he had
not been co-opted. But it would not have gone in
quite the same way.
But it is hard to evaluate the relative impor-
tance of individuals. Who was the more impor-
tant? — the First Tyrant of Madagascar, or the
nameless peasant who assassinated him? Felix’s
work had some effect. So did that of each of the
eighty-thousand-odd other individuals who took
part at one time or another in the Great Research.
Jacobstein Ray called back before he could turn
his mind to other matters. “Felix? You can come
over and take your young hopeful away, if you
will.”
“Fine. What sort of results?"
"Maddening. He started out with seven correct
answers in a row, then he blew up completely. Re-
sults no better than random — until he stopped an-
swering at all." 1
“Oh, he did. did he?” remarked Hamilton, think-
ing of a certain flop-eared buck.
“Yes indeed. Went limp on us. I'd as leave try
to stuff a snake down a hole.”
“Well, we'll try another day. Meanwhile I'll at-
tend to him."
“I’d enjoy helping you,” Jake said wistfully.
Theobald was just sitting, doing less than noth-
ing, when Felix came in. “Hello, sport. Ready to
go home?"
“Yes."
Felix waited until they were in the family car
and the pilot set on home before bracing him. “Ray
tells me you didn’t help him very well.”
Theobald twisted a string round his finger. He
concentrated on it.
"Well, how about it? Did you, or didn’t you?”
“He wanted me to play some stupid games," the
child stated. “No sense to them.”
“So you quit?”
"Yeah."
“I thought you told me you would help?”
“I didn’t say I would.”
Felix thought back. The child was probably
BEYOND THIS HORIZON—
right — he could not remember. But he had had a
feeling of contract, the “meeting of minds.”
“Seems to me there was a mention of a flop-eared
rabbit."
“But,” Theobald pointed out, “you said I could
have it anyhow. You told me so!"
The rest of the trip home was mostly silence.
XIV.
Madame Espartero Carvala called again, unex-
pectedly and with no ceremony. She simply called
by telephone and announced she was coming to see
them. She had informed Phyllis on the previous
occasion that she expected to come back to see the
baby. But more than four years had passed with
no word from her; Phyllis had given up expecting
her. After all, one does not thrust oneself on a
member of the cosmically remote Policy Board!
They had seen references to her in the news:
Madame Espartero reconfirmed without opposi-
tion. Madame Espartero offers her resignation.
The Grand Old Lady of the Board in failing
health. Madame Espartero's alternate selected by
special election. Carvala rallies in her fight for
life. Planners honor sixtieth year of Service of
the Oldest Member. Stereostories and news bits
— she had become an institution.
Felix had thought when he saw her last that
she looked older than any human being could. He
realized when he saw her this time that he had
been mistaken. She was still more incredibly frail
and shrunken and she seemed to move with great
effort. She compressed her lips tightly with each
movement.
But her eye was still bright, her voice was still
firm. She dominated her surroundings.
Phyllis came forward. “We are delighted. I
never expected to see you again.”
“I told you I was coming back to see the boy.”
“Yes, I remember, but it has been a long time
and you did not come.”
“No sense in looking a child over until he has
shaped up and can speak for himself! Where is
he? Fetch him in.”
"Felix, will you find him?”
“Certainly, my dear.” Felix departed, wonder-
ing how it was that he, a grown man and in full
possession of his powers, could permit a little old
woman, ripe for cremation, to get him so on edge.
It was childish of him!
Theobald did not want to leave his rabbits. “I’m
busy.”
Felix considered the plan of returning to the
lounge and announcing that Theobald would re-
ceive Madame Espartero, if at all, at the rabbit
run. But he decided that he could not do such a
thing to Phyllis. “Look, son, there is a lady in
there who wants to see you."
No answer.
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94
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“Make up your mind,” Felix announced cheer-
fully. “Will you walk, or do you prefer to be
dragged? It makes no difference to me.”
Theobald looked slowly up his father’s sheer
two meters and, without further comment, started
for the house.
“Madame Espartero, this is Theobald.”
“So I see. Come to me, Theobald.” Theobald
stood fast.
“Go to her, Theobald," Phyllis spoke briskly.
The boy complied at once.
Felix wondered why it was that the child obeyed
his mother so much more readily than his father.
Damn it, he was good to the child and just with
him. There must have been a thousand times when
he had refrained from losing his temper with him.
Madame Carvala spoke to him in a low voice,
too low for either Felix or Phyllis to catch. He
glowered and tried to look away, but she insisted,
caught his eye, and held it. She spoke again, and
he answered, in the same low tones. They talked
together for some minutes, quite earnestly. Fi-
nally she straightened up in her chair and said in
a louder tone: “Thank you, Theobald. You may
go now.”
He fled out of the house. Felix looked longingly
after him, but decided he had to stay. He selected
a chair as far across the room as manners per-
mitted, and waited.
Carvala selected another cigar, puffed until she
was the center of a cloud of blue smoke, and turned
her attention exclusively to Phyllis. “He's a sound
child,” she announced. “Sound. He’ll do well.”
“I’m happy that you think so.”
“I don’t think so, I know so.” They talked for a
while longer about the boy, small talk. Felix had
a feeling that the old woman was improvising until
she was ready with whatever was on her mind.
“When do you expect to have his sister?”
“I am ready any time," replied Phyllis. “I have
been for months. They are selecting for her now.”
“What are they selecting for? Anything differ-
ent from the boy?”
“Not in any major respect — except one. Of
course there will be plenty of variation from what
Theobald is, because in so many, many of the alter-
natives no attempt will be made to make a choice.”
“What is the one major respect you spoke of?"
Phyllis told her of it. Since the coming child
was to be a girl, its chromosome pattern would
contain two X-chromosomes, one from each of its
parents. Now philoprogenitiveness is, of course,
a sex-linked characteristic. Hamilton, be it re-
membered, lacked it to a moderate degree. Theo-
bald derived his one X-chromosome from his
mother; Mordan confidently expected that he
would be normal in his desire to have children of
his own when he became old enough for such
things to matter to him.
But his projected little sister would inherit from
both her parents in this respect. She might be
rather cool to the matter of having children. How-
ever, if she did have any, then her offspring need
not be handicapped by any lack in this highly de-
sirable survival trait; since she would pass on to
her heirs but one of her two X-chromosomes, by
selection, she could transmit only that of her
mother. Hamilton’s undesirable trait would be
eliminated forever.
Carvala listened carefully to this explanation —
or rather to that small portion of it Phyllis had
found it necessary to relate — and nodded cheer-
fully. “Put your mind at rest, child. It won’t mat-
ter a bit.” She offered no elaboration of her words.
She talked of other matters for a while, then said
suddenly, “Any time now, I take it?”
“Yes,” Phyllis agreed.
Carvala stood up and took her departure as sud-
denly as she came. “I hope we will have the honor
of your presence again, madame," Felix said care-
fully.
She stopped, turned, and looked at him. She
took her cigar from her mouth and grinned. “Oh,
I'll be back! You can count on that.”
Felix stood scowling at the door through which
she had left. Phyllis sighed happily. “She makes
me feel good, Felix.”
“She doesn't me. She looks like a corpse.”
"Now, Filthy!”
Felix went outside and looked up his son. "Hi,
sport.”
“H’lo.”
“What did she have to say to you?"
Theobald muttered something of which Felix
caught only the term “cuss-boss!"
"Take it easy, son. What did She want?"
“She wanted me to promise her something."
"And did you?"
“No.”
“What was it?"
But Theobald wasn't listening again.
After a late and pleasant supper in the cool of
the garden Felix turned on the news, rather idly.
He listened lackadaisically for a while, then sud-
denly called out, “Phyllis!”
“What is it?”
“Come here! Right away!”
She ran in; he indicated the spieling, flickering
box:
“ — dame Espartero Carvala. She appears to have
died instantly. It is assumed that she stumbled
near the top of the escalator, for she seemed to
have fallen, or rolled, the entire flight. She will
long be remembered, not only for her lengthy ten-
ure on the Board, but for her pioneer work in — ”
Phyllis had switched it off. Felix saw that she
had tears in her eyes, and refrained from the re-
mark that he had intended to make, something
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
95
about her cockiness in saying that she would be
6ure to be back.
Hamilton did not think it advisable to take
Theobald back to Jacobstein Ray again; he felt
that an antipathy had already grown up. But
there were others engaged in telepathy research;
he selected a crew and introduced Theobald to
them. But he had formed a theory about the for-
mer failure; the methods used then had been the
simple methods considered appropriate for young
children. This time they told Theobald what they
were attempting to do and started him out with
tests intended for adults.
He could do it. It was as simple as that. There
had been other cases equally clear cut, and the re-
search leader cautioned Felix not to expect too
much, as telepathically sensitive children tended
to fade out in the talent — which Felix knew. But
he could do it. Theobald, at least within the limits
of the conditions, could read minds.
So Felix called Mordan again, told him again of
what was on his mind. Did Mordan think that
Theobald was a mutation?
"Mutation? No, I have no data to go on.”
“Why not?”
" 'Mutation' is a technical term. It refers only
to a new characteristic which can be inherited by
Mendelian rules. I don’t know what this is. Sup-
pose you find out for me first what telepathy is —
then I’ll tell you whether or not Theobald can
pass it on — say, about thirty years from now!”
Well, that could wait. It sufficed that Theobald
was telepathic — at least for the present. The pro-
jected telepath gadget, which had derived from
the Plutonian “Life Detector," was beginning to
show promise. It had been duplicated in the
auxiliary cold laboratory underneath the outskirts
of Buenos Aires and had performed in the same
fashion as on Pluto. It had been considerably re-
fined, once the researchers knew the direction in
which they were driving, but it had presented
grave difficulties.
One of the difficulties had been straightened out
in a somewhat odd fashion. The machine, while
responsive to sentient beings (it would not re-
spond to plants, nor to animal life of low form),
did little else — it was not a true telepath. There
was a cat, of doubtful origin, which had made it-
self the lab mascot — moved in and taken posses-
sion. While the gadget was sensitized the oper-
ator had stepped back without looking and stepped
on pussy’s tail. Pussy did not like it and said so.
But the technician acting as receiver had liked
it even less; he had snatched off the headset, yelp-
ing. It had screamed at him, he alleged.
Further experimentation made it evident that
the machine was especially sensitive to the tha-
lamicstorm aroused by any sudden violent emotion.
Mere cool cerebration had much less effect on it.
However, banging a man on the thumb did not
count. The man expected it, and delayed his re-
action, routing it through the "cooler” of the fore-
brain. The emotion had to be strong and authentic.
Many tails were stepped on thereafter; many
cats sacrificed their temporary peace of mind to
the cause of science.
Theobald developed a strange antipathy for his
mother’s company during the period when she was
expecting the arrival of his sister. It upset
PhylliB; Felix tried to reason him out of it. “See
here, sport,” he said, “Hasn't mamma been good to
you?”
“Yeah. Sure.”
“Then what’s the trouble? Why don't you like
her?”
“I like her all right — but I don't like her.” His
meaning was unmistakable. Felix held a hur-
ried whispered consultation with his wife. “How
about it, Phil? I thought we hadn’t let him in on
the news yet?”
“I haven’t.”
“I didn’t — that’s sure. Do you suppose Claude
— no, Claude wouldn’t spill it. Hm-m-m . . . well,
there's only one other way he could have found
out — he found out for himself.” He looked at his
son with a deeply wrinkled brow; it might not be
too convenient, he was thinking, to have a tele-
pathic member of the household. Well, it might
wear off — it frequently did.
“We'll have to play it as it lies. Theobald.”
“What’cha want?”
"Is it your little sister whom you don’t like?”
The boy scowled and indicated assent.
(“It’s probably nothing but natural jealousy.
After all. he's been the big show around here all
his life.”) He turned again to his son. "Look
here, sport — you don't think that little sister will
make any difference in how mamma and daddy feel
about you. do you?"
“No. I guess not."
"A little sister will be a lot of fun for you.
You’ll be bigger than she will be, and you'll know
a lot more, and you’ll be able to show her things.
You’ll be the important one."
No answer.
“Don’t you want a baby sister?”
“Not that one.”
"Why not?”
He turned completely away. They heard him
mutter, “Old cuss-boss!" Then he added distinctly,
“and her cigars stink.”
The threesome was adjourned. Phyllis and
Felix waited until the boy was asleep and, pre-
sumably, with his telepathic ability out of gear.
“It seems pretty evident," he told her, “that he has
identified Carvala in his mind with Justina.”
She agreed. "At least I’m relieved to know that
96
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
it isn’t me he has a down on. Just the same, it’s
serious. I think we had better call in a psychia-
trist."
Felix concurred. "But I’m going to talk to
Claude about it, too.”
Claude refused to be upset by it. “After all,”
he said, “it’s perfectly natural that blood relatives
should dislike each other. That’s a prime datum
of psychology. If you can’t condition him to put
up with her, then you’ll have to rear them apart.
A nuisance, but that’s all.”
"But how about this fixation of his?"
“I’m not a psychiatrist. I wouldn’t worry too
much about it. Children frequently get some
funny notions. If you ignore them, they generally
get over them.”
So the psychiatrist thought, too. But he was
totally unable to shake Theobald’s conviction in
the matter. He had made his point, he stuck to
it, and he refused to argue.
It was a matter of prime significance, quite aside
from Theobald's fantastic delusion, that a tele-
pathic person had been able to locate a person
whom he had never seen and whose existence he
had no reason to suspect. It was a fair-sized brick
in the Great Research. Dutifully, Hamilton re-
ported the affair to Carruthers.
Carruthers was intensely interested. He asked
questions about it, took the matter home with him,
and nursed it. The next day he called in Felix,
and explained to him a plan he had conceived.
"Mind you," he said, "I'm not urging you to do
this. I’m not even asking you. It’s your wife, and
your baby, and your boy. But I think it’s a unique
opportunity to advance the Research."
Felix thought about it. "I’ll let you know to-
morrow."
"How would you like,” he said to Phyllis, when
they were alone that night, “to go to Buenos Aires
to have Justina?"
“Buenos Aires? Why there?”
“Because there is the only telepath machine on
Earth. And it can’t be moved out of the cold
laboratory."
XV.
“I’ve got it again." The receiver for the telepath
made the announcement grimly. The gadget was
still cantankerous ; during the past few days it had
worked beautifuly part of the time — about twenty
minutes in all! — and had refused to come to life
the rest of the time. It seemed to have soaked
up some of the contrariness of the subtle life-force
it tapped.
“What are you getting?”
“Feels like a dream. Water, long stretches of
water. Shore line in the back with mountain
peaks.” A recorder at his elbow took down every-
thing he said, with the exact times.
“Are you sure it’s the baby?”
“Sure as I was yesterday. Everybody is dif-
ferent over it. They taste different. I don’t know
how else to express it. Hold on! Something else
— a city, a damn big city, bigger than Buenos
Aires.”
“Theobald." said Mordan Claude gently, “can
you still hear her?” Mordan had been brought
because Felix conceded that Claude had a handier
way with the child than Felix. The child could
not hear the telepath receiver where they had
spotted him, although Claude could cut in through
an earphone. Phyllis, of course, was in another
room — it made no difference to the gadget, nor to
Theobald. Felix had a roving assignment, privi-
leged to make a nervous nuisance out of himself
to anyone.
The boy leaned back against Mordan’s thigh.
“She’s not over the ocean any more," he said.
"She's gone to Capital City."
“Are you sure it's Capital City?"
“Sure.” His voice was scornful. “I been there,
ain’t I? And there's the tower.”
Beyond the partition, someone was asking, "A
modern city?”
"Yes. Might be the Capital. It’s got a pylon
like it."
"Any other details?”
“Don’t ask me so many questions — it breaks into
the reverie . . . she’s moving again. We’re in a
room ... lot of people, all adults. They’re talking."
“What now, son?” Claude was saying.
“Aw, she’s gone to that party again.”
Two observers, standing clear of the activity,
were whispering. "I don’t like it," the short one
said. "It’s ghastly."
“But it's happening."
“But don’t you realize what this means, Mal-
colm? Where can an unborn child get such con-
cepts?"
"Telepathically from its mother, perhaps. The
brother is certainly a telepath.”
“No, no, no I Not unless all our conceptions of
cerebration are mistaken. Conceptions are limited
to experiences, or things similar to experiences.
An unborn child has experienced nothing but
warmth and darkness. It couldn’t have such con-
ceptions."
“Hm-m-m."
"Well — answer me I”
"You’ve got me — I can’t."
Someone was saying to the receiver, “Can you
make out any of the people present?”
He raised his headset. “Quit bothering me! You
drive it out with my own thoughts when you do
that. No, I can’t. It’s like dream images ... I
think it is a dream. I can’t feel anything unless
she thinks about it.”
BEYOND THIS HORIZON-
97
A little later. “Something’s happened . . . the
dream’s gone. Uneasy . . . it’s very unpleasant
. . . she’s repeating it . . . it’s . . . it’s — Oh, Great —
It’s awful ... it hurts! I can't stand it!” He tore
off his headset, and stood up, white and si sing.
At the same instant Theobald screamed.
It was a matter of minutes only when a woman
came out the door of the room where Phyllis was
and motioned to Hamilton.
“You can come in now,” she said cheerfully.
Felix got up from where he had been kneeling
with Theobald. “Stay with Uncle Claude, sport,”
he said, and went in to his wife.
XVI,
It was nice to be able to come to the beach again.
It was swell that Phyllis felt up to such little
expeditions. It was pleasant to lie in the sun
with his family all around him and soak up com-
fort.
Things had not turned out the way he had
planned, but things rarely did. Certainly he would
never have believed all this a few years back —
Phyllis and Baldy, and now Justina. Once he had
asked Claude to tell him the meaning of life —
now he did not care. Life was good, whatever it
was. And the prime question had been answered,
for him. Let the psychologicians argue it all they
pleased — there was a life, some kind of life, after
this one. Where a man might find out the full
answer — maybe.
For the main question: "Do we get another
chance?” had been answered — by the back door.
There was something more to the ego of a new
born child than its gene pattern. Justina had an-
swered that, whether she knew it or not. She had
brought memory patterns with her; she had lived
before. He was convinced of that. Therefore, it
was a dead sure cinch that the ego went somewhere
after the body disintegrated. Where, he would
worry about when the time came.
It did seem extremely likely that Justina did
not know what she had proved — and, of course,
there was no way of asking her. Her telepathic
THE
patterns after she was born were meaningless,
confused, as one would expect of a baby. Shock
amnesia the psychologicians had decided to call it.
Good a name as any. Being born must be some-
thing like being awakened out of a sound, dreamy
sleep by a dash of cold water in the face. That
would shock anybody.
He had not made up his mind yet whether he
wanted to continue active in the Great Research,
or not. He might just be lazy and raise dahlia
bulbs and kids. He didn’t know. Most of it was
pretty long-distance stuff, and he personally was
satisfied. Take that work that Cliff was on — cen-
turies and then some. Cliff had compared the job
to trying to figure out the entire plot of a long
stereostory from just one flash frame.
But they would finish — some day. Theobald
wouldn’t see it, but he would see more of it than
Felix, and his son would see still more. His sons
would roam the stars — no limit.
It was nice that Theobald seemed to have gotten
over that ridiculous fixation identifying Justina
with old Carvala. True, he did not seem actually
fond of the baby, but that would be expecting a lot.
He seemed more puzzled by her, and interested.
There he was now, leaning over the baby’s bas-
ket. He really did seem —
"Theobald !”
The boy stood up straight quickly.
“What were you doing?”
“Nothing.” Maybe so — but it looked very much
as if he had pinched her.
“Well, I think you had better find another place
to do it. The baby needs to sleep now.”
The boy shot a quick glance at the infant and
turned away. He walked slowly down toward
the water.
Felix settled back, after glancing over at Phyllis.
Yes, she was still asleep. It was a good world, he
assured himself again, filled with interesting
things. Of which the most interesting were chil-
dren. He glanced down at Theobald. That boy
was a lot of fun now, and would be more interest-
ing as he grew up — if he could refrain from wring-
ing his cussed little neck in the meantime!
END.
THE BIRTH OF A SUPERSTITION
By Willy Ley
• There's an item a lot of people "know" that ain't
so: the ancient Greeks were not color-blind to blue.
But how'd the idea that they were ever get started?
Illustrated by Kramer
It is anything but an exaggeration to state that
misconceptions, once formed, display a “survival
value” which puts even the proverbial — albeit un-
scientific — nine-lived cat to shame. There is noth-
ing on Earth that is as persistent and as insidious,
as penetrating and as permanent as a nice, juicy
and impressive blunder.
Twenty times at least it has been proved that
young George Washington did not chop down a
cherry tree ; thirty times it has been asserted that
Beethoven did not say “fate knocks at the door”
in reference to the first four notes of his Fifth
Symphony. Yet, when you open your newspaper
tomorrow morning or your weekly five-cent maga-
zine, you’ll find — not the denials, but a reference
to the original story. Cinderella did not wear
glass slippers, but ermine slippers — that story re-
sulted from a mix-up of the two French terms
pantouBes de vair and pantouBes de verre — but try
and abolish the mistaken translation.
It seems that a misconception, resulting origi-
nally from a faulty observation or at least a faulty
interpretation of a correct observation, achieves
permanency as soon as it finds its way into print.
THE BIRTH OF A SUPERSTITION
99
Once printed it stays printed. Of course, the cor-
rections and denials find their way into print, too,
but, somehow, it always happens that the original
blunder finds its public, while the denials and cor-
rections fail to do so. Sometime later somebody
digs up the original story and, being ignorant of
the corrections made in the meantime, re-reveals
it as forgotten knowledge. It works somewhat
like those alleged medieval curses that lie dormant
in forbidden books. As long as the book stays
locked up everything is all right, but when it is
read the curse takes possession of the reader and
he is bound to pass it on to the next victim.
This is especially true of one misconception
which is more widely known and more widely
believed than many other correct and, incidentally,
much more useful bits of information.
I am speaking of the assertion that the ancient
Greeks were not able to see the color “blue,” as
evidenced by the Homeric epics. Why this item
of knowledge should find such an extended audi-
ence is more than slightly mysterious, but it hap-
pens to be the case. You can find it stated in
well-meant serious books and it crops up, too, in
novels — historic and otherwise — and short stories.
Even one of the newspaper correspondents who
reported on the war in Greece made passing
mention of that “fact" in saying that the modern
Greeks did see the blue of the Mediterranean Sea.
One could feel him quiver with pride about the
extensiveness of his knowledge.
I could simply state that the notion of the
blue blindness of the ancient Greeks was disproved
many years ago and that, according to modern
knowledge, the Greeks of the heroic period could
see blue as well as any man of today. But I think
it advisable to relate the whole story in some de-
tail, partly to prove the statement itself, partly
because the development of that notion is a good
example of how a misconception originates, how
it takes root and grows into an independent life
of its own.
It all began in 1858 when W. E. Gladstone pub-
lished the third volume of bis “Studies on Homer
and the Homeric Age." This book contains a
chapter on Homer’s use of words denoting colors.
Gladstone was greatly surprised about “the slight
use of color, as compared with other elements of
beauty" and he concluded that Ilias and Odyssey
both exhibited “a vast predominance of the most
crude and elemental forms of color, black and
white, over every other, and the decided tendency
to treat other colors as simply intermediate modes
between these extremes."
In this chapter Gladstone emphasized that blue
fares worst of all colors in Homer, that the sky
and the sea are never called blue and that a word,
“kyanos " — which was customarily translated as
AST— 7E
"blue” and which did mean blue in later Greek
writing — was often used in places where it could
not possibly mean blue. Nineteen years later, in
1877, Gladstone published an article “The Colour
Sense" in the magazine The Nineteenth Century
in which he took an even stronger point of view,
holding that Homer and his contemporaries did
not see any colors at all, but just shades between
white and black, in about the manner of a photo-
graphic emulsion.
During the interval between these two works
two German scientists had joined hands with Glad-
stone. One of them, Lazarus Geiger, wrote a book
called “The Evolution of Mankind" (1871) wherein
he not only supported Gladstone with reference to
Homer and to the ancient Greeks in general, but
in which he also asserted that the other ancient
civilizations had suffered from the same shortcom-
ing. The books of the Vedas, the A vesta, even the
Bible do not mention blue. It cannot be found in
the Bible, either, although there would be ample
opportunity for it, because the Bible mentions the
sky — this is Geiger’s count — not less than two
hundred and fifty times. Even the Koran, which
was written much later, does not contain the word
“blue."
After this, an expert in another field, Dr. Hugo
Magnus, professor of ophthalmology at the Uni-
versity of Breslau, after consulting with his father
— who was professor of Oriental languages at the
same university — decided to draw some conclu-
sions from these finds. He published a book, “Die
Geschichtliche Entwicklung des Farbensinnes”
("The Historic Development of the Color Sense")
in which he surveyed the material collected by
Gladstone and by Geiger. Based on the evident
complete or partial color blindness of the peoples
living prior to 1000 B. C., Magnus evolved the
theory that the color sense represents a very re-
cent step in the evolutionary process. The
acquisition of the color sense could even be dated ;
among the Greeks it took place during the interval
between Homer and Plato, among the Romans
slightly later and last among the Semitic tribes,
as proved by even the latest books of the Bible
and the still later Koran.
Cases of color blindness in our time had, there-
fore, to be taken as atavisms and Dr. Magnus
prophesied that people a thousand years hence
would be able to see and to distinguish new colors
in the ultraviolet, still invisible in 1900 A. D.
It sounded very convincing. We have to re-
member that it was the general and accepted belief
at that time — which, as we know now, hardly holds
true — that aborigines cannot tell good paintings
from bad, that their musical taste is worthless and
that their evaluation of smells is simply atrocious.
Even modern man is not born with an aversion
against bad smells, or harsh color combinations or
100
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
“hot" music. He has to attain these faculties by
developing his sense of discrimination. And we
all know that some — including orchestra leaders
and painters — never do.
The investigations of the Gladstone-Geiger-
Magnus group seemed to offer an explanation for
all this, at least as far as the sense of vision was
concerned. If the various white nations had
acquired their color sense at about the time of
Christ and not earlier, it was not at all surprising
that the aborigines had not progressed that far
even in the Nineteenth Century.
Somebody found out that a very early author,
Pliny the Elder, had actually told the story. Some-
where he had said that at first paintings were
executed with red pigments only, then with red
and yellow, that black and white were added later
and finally the full range of the colors of the rain-
bow. As for the rainbow itself it offered addi-
tional proof. Xenophanes had said that it was
purple, red and yellowish-green. Aristotle had
called it red, green and blue with a narrow yellow-
ish band between red and green. And the Edda
had spoken about “three-colored rainbow bridge.”
Further proof could be found in the etymology
of the word “blue" itself. In Italian it is biavo,
in French bleu, in German blau, all these words
going back to the Old Norse bla, which, however,
is also the root of “black." This closed the circle,
n Norse term which meant blue as well as black —
and all Romanic languages were forced to borrow
it because they had none of their own. Evidently
the Norse had learned to see blue earlier, naming
it with a modification of their word for black
when it emerged from the darkness of the in-
visible.
It all seemed to fit into the evolutionary scheme
that Magnus sketched out. The two “warm" col-
ors, red and yellow, he said, were seen first, only
much later did the eye learn to discern the shorter
wave lengths which originally had failed to regis-
ter at all on the retina.
And then the three-colored rainbow bridge col-
lapsed and Gladstone and Magnus — Geiger had
died in the meantime — found themselves marooned
in the lofty tower of an unsupported theory, built
on the Homeric isle that “solemnly lieth in the
Western gloom, surrounded by waves of purple
and darkness.”
Two men, curiously enough again an English-
man and a German, brought this about. The name
of the Englishman was Grant Allen, that of the
German Dr. Ernst Krause. Grant Allen — accord-
ing to his self-description a “comparative psychol-
ogist” — concentrated his whole attack in one book
(“The Colour Sense,” London, 1S79) which had
been started before Gladstone and Magnus de-
scended upon civilization with their nonsense.
Ernst Krause did not write a book — which he did
frequently and well — but fired a long succession
of blasts in magazine articles. They are pretty
hard to locate now, sixty-five years later, and some
were published under his pen name, Carus Sterne,
an anagram of his real name.
Krause-Sterne seems to have recognized the true
and not so very surprising cause for the Great
Misunderstanding in a flash, because a complete
refutation of the theory can be found in a hastily
written review of Dr. Magnus’ book. Starting with
Geiger's statement that the Bible never calls the
sky “blue” in spite of two hundred and fifty op-
portunities for doing it, Krause quietly pointed to
Exodus 24:10. In the King James version this
reads :
And they saw the God of Israel: and there was tinder
his feet as if it were a paved work of a sapphire stone,
and as the body of heaven in his clearness.
The Douay version renders the latter part of
the sentence as:
— and under his feet as if it were a work of sapphire
stone, and as the heaven, when clear.
Krause recognized the real shortcoming in this
quote. It sounds very much as if a man tries his
best to describe “blue,” while lacking the term
itself. In fact, the Hebrew language is said to
lack a word for blue to this day — at least Geiger
said so. The shortcoming was one of language,
not of vision.
This simple explanation found substantiation in
the fact that the lapis lazuli was highly valued in
the ancient world. Krause pointed out that lapis
lazuli is an opaque stone, that it does not scintil-
late, that it is neither very hard nor very heavy,
in short that it has no interesting features except
its color. And that color is blue — but if the an-
cients could not see blue, why did they value it?
The same goes for the turquoise and I may add
that one of the twelve stones in the breastplate of
the High Priest was a turquoise. And the tribe
represented by this stone — I forgot which one —
carried a flag “the color of the turquoise.”
Krause also pointed out that the two objects
most likely to look blue in Nature are the sky and
the sea. But those old poems of Homer that were
the starting point of the whole controversy, were
written at the shore of the Mediterranean Sea,
where a blue sky — and consequently a blue sea — is
normal. If the sea looked different to Homer at
dusk or flamed red and yellow with sunrise and
sunset, he said so explicitly and vividly.
So much for Dr. Krause's answer to Gladstone
and Magnus. He forgot to add that Magnus
should have incorporated his small book on the
development of the color sense in another bigger
THE BIRTH OF A SUPERSTITION
101
work he wrote. The title of that bigger work is
“Superstition in Medicine"!
Grant Allen, the “comparative psychologist,"
had been working on a thesis the gist of which was
“color sense comes from fruit eating” when Glad-
stone and company made their big discovery. It
caused him to rewrite a part of his book and to
add one or two chapters, but otherwise he saw no
reason to doubt his own work.
For years Allen had been corresponding with
zoologists about the color sense of animals and
had been mailing questionnaires to all parts of
the British Empire, inquiring about the color sense
of the aborigines. Their taste was often enough
“barbaric," but it always implied perfect color
vision. “I may as well say at once,” he wrote,
“that the questionnaires bore out in every case
(his italics) the supposition that the color sense is,
as a whole, absolutely identical throughout all
branches of the human race."
But he found several instances of missing color
words, bearing out Krause’s assertion that the
shortcoming was of purely linguistic nature. He
found, for example, that South African tribes lack
a native word for violet, but they were able to see
that color. A Mozambique used a Dutch word in
his native speech, the term "purple," something he
knew but could not name except with a borrowed
word.
Much nearer home, Allen found another exam-
ple of linguistic inadequacy. The Highland Scots
use the word gorm for the color of the sky as well
as for that of grass — but to suggest that they are,
therefore, color-blind, might be unwise. Further-
more, Allen pointed out, even our own color words
are rather, clumsy. Lilac, lavender, violet, pink,
saffron, cherry, orange and chocolate are color
words, but they are also the names of objects,
mainly flowers. They are not color words origi-
nally and a term like “cherry” can describe the
greater part of the visible spectrum when taken
too literally. Emulating Gladstone’s methods,
Allen finally counted the color words in a poem
by a man who was certainly not color-blind and
102
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
who had the whole vocabulary of recent English
at his disposal. The poem was Tennyson’s “Prin-
cess” and Allen found: red ten times, rosy and
similar terms denoting shades of red ten times,
golden, gold et cetera twenty-six times, purple
eight times, yellow and orange each once, together
fifty-six mentions of the red-yellow half of the
spectrum. The green-blue half of the spectrum
was represented as follows : green five times, azure
three times, blue, violet and lilac once each, to-
gether eleven. Which proves that Tennyson saw
red-yellow five times better than green-blue.
And now I’ll go in for a few Gladstonisms my-
self, looking back at the language of the Twentieth
Century from, say, 2500 A. D.
Even after a short and cursory contemplation of
the available material, it becomes evident that the
people of the Twentieth Century had a very weak
color vision, in fact it seems as if the only color
they saw well was red. Else it could not be ex-
plained that they offered a choice of red or white
wine at dinner. Wine that is not red is yellow —
but the alternate explanation that the choice was
wine or milk might be acceptable. It is known
that they drank milk.
Even the ability to see the color “red” must
have been recently acquired in the Twentieth Cen-
tury. An earlier English poet by the name of
William Shakespeare wrote in “Macbeth”:
"-—here lay Duncan
His silver skin laced with his golden blood.”
This proves that he could see only a difference
in intensity: blood is, after all, red and the skin of
the “white” race is pink. Besides they used a
term derived from the Latin word niger for the
colored race, the word Negro. But niger means
definitely black, while the Negroes were of a
blackish brown color.
The Russians of the Twentieth Century must
have been able to see red, since one of their daily
newspapers was called Krassanaya Zvyesda or Red
Star. But they could not see blue, there was no
word for blue in their language. Rather, they had
two such words, one used in reference to the color
of the sky on a clear day, the other for dark-blue.
It is evident that those terms also denoted simply
a difference in intensity.
The French of the same period called a dark-
red variety of wine “blue wine” and referred to
the hour of dusk as l’heure bleue — “blue” must
have meant just darkness to them.
As for the Germans of the Twentieth Century it
can be regarded as an established fact that they
were completely color-blind. In the first place
they had only one word — Farbe — for dye, color,
pigment and paint. They called rye bread “black
bread” and a pine forest Black Forest — it is
obvious that any dark shade, whether brown or
green, looked simply black to them. They — and
others — referred to nobility as blue-blooded. They
named a certain type of beer Weissbier — white
beer.* They called a coppersmith Rotschmid — red-
smith as distinct from an iron or blacksmith —
although the metal such a man worked with was
mostly yellow brass. Finally they called an in-
toxicated man “blue.” This usage clinches the
case, because it is known that that idiomatic term
was used as a superlative for “drunk.” It meant
senselessly drunk. Senselessness implies mental
darkness, dark is black and black is blue — Twen-
tieth Century English also used the term "blue
in a connotation of mental despair, mental dark-
ness.
You say this is nonsense? But I was only imi-
tating Gladstone’s reasoning. Of course he re-
ferred to a more noble language, classic Greek,
where he found that Homer used leukos for white,
mdlas for black, erythros for red, and xanthos
probably for yellow. He also found that chloros —
green — and ochros — ochre — were sometimes used
interchangeably and he was quite sure that kyanos
never meant blue but just dark, because it was
applied to the eyebrows of Zeus, the hair of Hector
and of Hera and the mourning cloak of Thetis. It
never occurred to him that Homer did not need
to worry about the distinction between blond and
brunet since they were all black-haired. But black
hair can have a bluish or a reddish sheen, that
was the one distinction required. Gladstone, to
proceed further, wanted to translate the “blue-
prowed ships” as the “bronze-prowed shops” —
which would have rendered them green-prowed in
a hurry— and he changed the frieze of kyanos in
King Alkinoos’ hall into a frieze of bronze. (The
latter is not impossible, since the walls of the hall
were covered with sheet copper.) All of this was
not taken as a proof for the legend that Homer was
blind, but just as a proof that he could not see
blue, which in turn was taken as an indication that
none of the ancient Greeks could. But those peo-
ple who saw only the red end of the spectrum
lacked a word for orange!
During the decades following the first publica-
tions a number of interesting discoveries were
made. Actual discoveries, not only the literary
variety. The Babylonian Ishtar Gate was exca-
vated, with towering walls built of glazed bricks,
bricks of the brightest cornflower blue I have ever
seen. Egyptian paintings were discovered; no color
is missing in them. These discoveries took care
of Lazarus Geiger’s assertions or what was left of
them. And on Greek soil the ruins of a banquet
hall were found, with a frieze of blue kyanos just
as Homer had described it in his epic.
•The term really means Welzenbler — wheat beer.
THE BIRTH OF A SUPERSTITION
103
In addition to that Pliny’s story about the de- i
velopment of painting had found a perfectly good
explanation — it just meant that the ancient paint-
ers had had trouble obtaining a blue dye or pig-
ment. Even much later, blue was very expensive ;
one of the great masters — I believe Albrecht Diirer
— is known to have had trouble with his wife every
time he showed too large a blue area on his canvas.
His wife appears to have been of the thrifty
variety.
In short the color words of any language seem
to have followed the accomplishments of the arti-
sans — but they had great trouble in obtaining blue
dyes or pigments. But vision had nothing to do
with these struggles.
The greater part of all this was known in 1900.
But the “ancient curse" was not dead, it was only
hidden away in books. In 1904 a German scholar
wrote a book dealing with known cases of color-
blindness as applied to the Homeric poems. As for
Homer he just repeated Gladstone's and Magnus'
assertions — not knowing Allen’s work at all and
only one of Krause’s numerous articles — and ar-
rived at the remarkable conclusion that blue blind-
ness must have been a racial characteristic of the
ancient Greeks. As “proof’’ he printed a color
reproduction of an ancient painting of Zeus — not
a great masterpiece — with a few green dabs on
the wooden footstool of the god. A blue-blind
man, his argument ran. would have taken that kind
of green as a darker shade of wood color. But he
had to admit that many people to whom he showed
the color print failed to see the “mistake” — it took
me quite some time to find it — or to realize what
it indicated. He disclaimed the possibility that
the paint may have undergone chemical changes
in the meantime, “although no chemical analysis
was made.” What would he “prove” from a small
collection of modern paintings?
Since then the assertion of Greek blue blindness
has been resurrected from time to time, usually by
amateur scholars. How widespread the miscon-
ception still is even now is indicated by an excel-
lent essay, published in December. 1927, in the
series “Smith College Classical Studies.” The
title of the essay is “Color in Homer and in An-
cient Art” and its author is Florence Elizabeth
Wallace. The author, who arrived at the correct
result that the "blue blindness” consists of lin-
guistic peculiarities only, admitted that she “un-
dertook the study of the use of color in Homer
with the conviction that its peculiarities were
caused by shortcomings in the vision of the
Homeric Greeks.” In other words she had at first
accepted the story which, somehow, had reached
her, until “further studies failed to reveal grounds
for this idea.”
But so far this realization seems to be restricted
to circles of Greek scholars — when you read a
newspaper report on a battle in which Greek sol-
diers took place the reporter will not fail to tell
you that they “now” see the deep blue color of the
Mediterranean.
THE END.
104
BRASS TACKS
Agreed: “ Defense Line” did have that fiaw in de-
picting the System two-dimensiona’ly. But I
felt the concept of asteroid hill-billies interest-
ing enough to make the daw forgiveahle.
Dear Mr. Campbell:
Because Salant does such a neat job on Dr. Smith
in the February Brass Tacks, I will considerably
reduce the extended comment I had in mind on
“Second Stage Lensman." For many years Dr.
Smith has been a fresh and stimulating writer.
His stories have been enormously popular, not
merely for the sake of his individual style, but
because the readers knew they could always count
on Dr. Smith for original and entertaining ideas,
and were never disappointed. Ave atque vale.
Now, for the first time, Dr. Smith has written, and
you have published, a story the whole of which
fails to contain a single new idea. To see the im-
agination which has given us the successive Sky-
larks, including Fenachrone, Osnome, Dasor, Nor-
lamin, the Intellectuals, the Chlorans, the only
really solid attempt at depicting fourth dimen-
sional translation, and the most famed villain of
all sf. ; the Triplanetary story introducing Gray
Roger, Nevia, and the Nevians; “Spacehounds,”
with the ice-people, hexans, and Vorkuls; and the
earlier Patrol tales with Lens, “Helmuth speaking
for Boskone,” Worsel, Tregonsee, et cetera — to
see such an imagination reduced to impotency is
a painful spectacle indeed. I deeply respect Dr.
Smith for his past accomplishments, but if you or
he can point to one single new idea or conception
appearing in “Second Stage Lensman” to justify
its publication, you will have spotted something
two careful readings have not revealed to me.
Enough of this painful and distressing topic.
Unquestionably the best story in the February
issue is “There Shall Be Darkness.” This is a
story which simply invites comparison with S. V.
Benet’s “Last of the Legions,” which concerns the
departure of the Valeria Victrix from Britain
when Rome was falling before the barbarian on-
slaughts. And yet, though Benit is concededly
one of the best modern masters of the short story,
Miss Moore does not emerge from the comparison
entirely without honors. The especial merits of
her story, it seems to me, lie in the depiction of
the character and psychology of the Venusian peo-
ple, and the skill with which she is able to make
Quanna a believable and human character, rather
than merely "de skoit wot de bigshot bumps de
rat off for.” The fact that the action scenes are
by no means as clearly or as well written as the
body of the narrative is a defect, but not one which
spoils the story. On the whole, Miss Moore is to
be complimented and asked to reappear in As-
tounding’s pages as soon as conveniently may be.
The vote for second place goes to “Sorcerer of
Rhiannon.” An amiable, unimportant tale, it of-
fers adequate amused diversion. Third, "Medusa,”
more for the forcefulness of the plot than any
other reason. Up to the actual encounter with the
“mad planet,” the story gave promise of being ex-
ceptionally good, but I’m sorry Sturgeon couldn’t
have thought of a better ending. He i6, too, prob-
ably, and I don’t know how else I could have done
it myself. But that’s just the point — unless an
author knows more, or is cleverer, than you, it is
boring to read his stuff.
There should now ensue a vast and yawning gap
between the third and fourth. While "Second
Stage Lensmen” can be rated fourth, it is only be-
cause the competition is slight. This installment
was dust and ashes to me — the final bitter blow was
having Boskone turn out to be a mad Arisian and
BRASS TACKS
105
the Arisians no more than those “brains” Harry
Bates wrote so incisively about in “Alas All
Thinking," many, many years ago. “Starting
Point” may have the vote for fifth, if only because
I’ve now had quite enough of the Kilkenny Cats,
and hope von Rachen feels the same way. The
only original thought appearing in this series was
the conception of bluffing an enemy with fake
rocket trails suggesting presence of a powerful
hostile fleet out in space. That was good. But
this current installment is vacuous — full of vio-
lent action, it is still tame as Billy's pet white rat,
for the violence does not come alive and swirl the
reader into the excitement written about. It re-
mains deadeningly familiar, uninspired, flat as
stale tea.
This leaves us with only De Camp’s article await-
ing word of its fate. The first installment greatly
interested me; the second I found tedious. I am in-
terested in biology, but I am majoring in zodlogy,
not botany, or possibly this comment would be ex-
actly reversed!
Considered as a whole, the issue leaves me with
a more cheerful spirit than was imparted by the
January issue, because you printed no story in
January I am likely to remember a year from now.
while “There Shall Be Darkness" will, if I mistake
not, be so remembered.
As usual, I disagree with the Analytical Labo-
ratory results for the December issues. I would
give “Homo Saps" top billing, even though the
story was not as effectively written as it might
have been. Why "Defense Line" was either writ-
ten or accepted I did not understand. Space is
three dimensional, while the solar system lies ap-
proximately in a plane. There is no need to navi-
gate through the asteroid belt, regardless of the
direction of approach from outer space. Only the
scattering of suggestions regarding human sur-
vival among the asteroids meant anything in the
story.
A last word on the cover — I. do not like it; it
neither makes a harmonious and pleasing compo-
sition — it is off-balance — nor effectively depicts an
“action scene." Rogers might have chosen more
successfully from the episodes in the story — I
don't even recognize this scene at all.
Having said his say, he saith no more. — Louis
Russell Chauvenet, Box 1431, University Station,
Charlottesville, Virginia.
Information, please.
Dear Editor:
_ This is somewhat in the nature of a long-
distance announcement, but I want to get this plea
for information off my chest as easily as possible.
I am planning another book which is to deal with
the history of science, as reflected in contem-
porary thought and contemporary literature.
While I have all the material I need — and more
— for the time prior to 1800, 1 have the feeling that
my knowledge of English and American literature
for the period after that date might be incom-
plete. I am sure that I know all the French and
German novels of that period, but it is likely that
I may have missed a number of American and
British books.
For this reason I wish to ask those readers of
science-fiction who are willing to assist me to send
me lists of book titles — not books— of science and
science-fiction stories known to them. — Willy Ley,
304 West Twenty-fourth Street, New York City.
The Kilkenny cats never did hold together; at the
time of the revolution each group held to a
larger group.
Dear Editor Campbell :
I haven’t yet put my oar in in regard to Astound-
ing and Unknown going large size. It may be a
smart business move — but personally I am not in
favor of it as it is not convenient, and difficult to
file along with the small-size magazines. However,
if going large size will increase the sales of both
magazines, then I am certainly in favor of it. I
wonder, though, if you can get sufficient good ma-
terial for the large size, especially with some of
the best writers being inducted into the military
forces right now.
Personally, I don’t like to read other people's
analyses of stories in detail, but I realize that that
may be of some benefit to you, so I am going to
do so for the February Astounding.
The best story in the issue was Moore’s “There
Shall Be Darkness." The story is well written,
shows character development, the plot is well
worked out and reminded me somewhat of the con-
flict between the Normans and the Saxons in Eng-
land in the Eleventh and Twelfth centuries. Moore
hit an A rating here.
The second best story was a surprise to me,
Brackett's, “The Sorcerer of Rhiannon," and I im-
agine that I will be the only person to rate it sec-
ond. I am not sure why, unless the conflicts of
personalities appeals to me.
The third was, of course, Smith’s “Second Stage
Lensmen," not that it is outstanding, but the writ-
ing is good. I am glad to see the last of Boskone
and hope, the last of Kinnison. Frankly I have
not liked this story as it was a continuation of the
last one. If Smith wanted to become even better
known than he is, let him write about a few vil-
lains. His heroes are rather sickish at times.
Frankly, the most interesting character that Smith
ever created was Roger in Triplanetary. A long
106
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
book about him would be more interesting than
anything he has written to date. The only thing
that saved “Second Stage Lensmen” was the de-
nouement — that Boskone was, what one should
have thought of before, an Arisian. That was the
only logical — I must admit I had not thought of
it — ending to the menace of Boskone, a typical
Nazi form of culture. I had assumed that it had
grown through a cultural wave rather than from
one center infecting a whole culture as the Arisian
had done.
Jones’ “Starting Point" is next. It is clever and
very true of its analysis in regard to the develop-
ment of any phase of civilization — not only trans-
portation.
Sturgeon's “Medusa" was O. K. but not outstand-
ing. I have “me doubts” about any organism reach-
ing such a size. Until we have some evidence that
life can exist in other forms than some type of
protoplasm we cannot postulate such a gigantic
being — planetary sizel
I am rather tired of von Rachen’s Kilkenny Cats.
They are the most unco-operative group that I
have read about in a long time. I fear that even the
curious descendants of man and his ancestors
could not be so stupid as depicted. Perhaps I am
wrong, but such a lack of basic intelligence and co-
operativeness in a group that could hold together
to pull off a revolution is not logical.
De Camp's article was O. K. It was written
about a year ago, wasn't it? Certain parts dated it.
I did not like the interior illustrations for
Moore's story. I seldom notice too closely or com-
ment on illustrations, but these were so poor that
even I had to notice them. The cover was fair.
The general make-up of the magazine was good
and the editorial very good. A majority of your
editorials are quite good and accurate. I usually
read them first, so don’t disappoint me some time.
— Thomas S. Gardner, 344 Commonwealth Avenue,
Boston, Massachusetts.
It’s a promise /
Dear Campbell :
If it will make Mr. Northrup any happier, I have
sworn off, for duration at least, stories wherein
Invaders conquer Earth and utterly crush all re-
sistance, only to be in their turn destroyed by
noble young scientist who discovers that they
cannot abide being called “You platypus!” but
swell up and burst with frustrated fury whenever
so insulted. I agree with Mr. Northrup that it is
time we prepared ourselves mentally for the pros-
pect of having to do things the hard way, the easy
ones having, during the last two decades, failed
egregiously. — L. Sprague de Camp, 706 Riverside
Drive, New York City.
The seafarers take six out of ten; Sturgeon is in
the merchant marine. His specialty, incidentally,
is — East coast tankers!
Dear Mr. Campbell:
It is approximately a year since I last wrote to
Brass Tacks. In my case, silence has meant a
satisfied customer.
I don’t think any story in 1940 quite came up
to “Sian!” or to three or four others. Also, there
was a period in late fall and early winter when
several stories dropped well below average for
Astounding. But, in spite of all that, there were
fewer below-average stories during the year than
in 1940. Just for the record, here are my top ten
for 1941 :
1. “Masquerade.”
2. "Universe.”
3. "Nightfall.”
4. "Common Sense.”
5. “Methuselah’s Children.”
6. “And He Built a Crooked House.
7. “Microcosmic God."
8. “Time Wants a Skeleton.”
9. "Not Final!”
10. “By His Bootstraps."
It is to be noted that those seafarers, Heinlen
and MacDonald, capture five of the places between
them, and Asimov is in there with two. Logically,
“Eccentric Orbit” ought to be in there somewhere,
since it outranked “Masquerade," my pick for
No. 1 in the Analytical Laboratory for March.
But I’m not especially logical, so I presume I’ll
have to leave it off; too bad.
1942 has started off with a bang. C. L. Moore’s
"There Shall Be Darkness" is not only the best
story so far this year, but is superior to anything
last year, and up to the best in 1941. Miss Moore
has the rather marvelous faculty of being able to
write a story about a woman, from the point of
view of a woman, and make cynical males cheer
long and loudly. She did the same sort of thing
in “Fruit of Knowledge” in Unknown. First place
in January went to Williamson’s “Breakdown.”
Smith's latest Lensman story was a strong second
during both months.
For March, Del Rey takes first, with "The
Wings of the Night," a story not far behind
“There Shall Be Darkness.” I like the style, the
feeling of hopeful idealism, and the reasonable
treatment of an alien intellect. The rest of the
issue is very fine. I liked “Goldfish Bowl,” "Day
After Tomorrow” and “The Embassy,” in that
order. No choice between the remaining three,
which were O. K. I really expected “Recruiting
Station” to place near the top of the list. It didn’t,
partly because of the excellence of the top four,
and partly because it seemed somewhat too vague
and too hard to follow. It seems to me that it
should have been longer.
BRASS TACKS
107
While I’m at it, I may as well add that I’m very
well pleased with the new size. You're doing a
fine job all around. — D. B. Thompson, 1903 Polk,
Alexandria, Louisiana.
Good, round lies will be accepted with pleasure.
Got any on hand yourself?
Dear Friend:
Congratulations on another fine issue of “our"
magazine! The stories continue to show a high
standard of reader interest, and, of course, they
are, basically, what determine the success of an
issue.
I wish to concur with your comment on the first
letter in Brass Tacks. I. too, for several months
have noticed that change which has come of “grow-
ing up with science-fiction.” We veteran fans
have seen nearly the whole field and. perhaps, are
sometimes prone to wish for the “good old days,”
but, as I say, I have noticed this tendency, and
also my changing taste in fiction and have tried to
compensate for it, especially in rating stories for
the An. Lab. Sorry I can’t thus compensate on
the interior pictures, because Paul, Wesso and
Finlay are today putting out material as good as
anything ever seen. Of course nothing on the
horizon can equal Rogers’ best covers.
Now I must comment on Van Vogt’s “Recruiting
Station” in this issue. In my opinion some of his
basic concepts are as nutty as a squirrel colony,
but he can really produce atmosphere. It should
have had a “Nova” rating — indeed its style was
reminiscent of the first of the “Novae": “Who
Goes There?” An. Lab. No. 1, rating 94. (When
are you going to write the first Supernova?)
I look forward with anticipation to the STF
Liars Colony, "Probability Zero.” Perhaps we
may recruit a champion for the Burlington Liars
Club?
Especially liked the last sentence in your edi-
torial.
The cover, this issue, didn’t especially please
me. However, that was a difficult story to get a
concrete scene to reproduce. Mebbe something he
et? Rating 80.
All stories, this issue, rate high:
2. “Day After Tomorrow.” 90.
3. “Describe a Circle.” 88.
4. A tie. “Wings of Night" and “Run-
around." 87.
5. A tie. “Embassy,” "Goldfish Bowl” and the
article “Dispersion.” 82.
Int-Pix, none really bad, Rogers’ are good. Is-
sue average on int-pix: 85. Rating, issue as a
whole, about 89. (Van Vogt’s screwy masterpiece
pulled it up by its bootstraps.) — Lamont M. Jen-
sen, Box 35, Cowley, Wyoming.
DYNAMITE AND
LAUGHTER
• The echoes of the blasted
bank vault had not even died
away when, rising above the
clangor of alarm bells, came
a horrendous mirth that sent
shivers of pure dread through
those who heard it. It was—
The Shadowl THE NORTH*
DALE MYSTERY is the stirring
novel featured in the May 1st
issue.
He lifted a finger — and there
was murder! Did the Light
meet his master when The
Shadow came to grips with
this powerful force for evil?
You will thrill to DEATH'S
BRIGHT FINGER in the May
15th number of
THE SHADOW
10e A COPY AT ALL NEWSSTANDS
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
By Alfred Bestcr
• — or a careless word, for that matter, coil wreck the
entire universe. Think not? Well, if it happened this way—
I think it’s about time someone
got all those stories together and
burned them. You know the
kind I mean — X, the mad scien-
tist, wants to change the world ;
Y, the ruthless dictator, wants to
rule the world; Z, the alien
planet, wants to destroy the
world.
Let me tell you a different
kind of story. It’s about a whole
world that wanted to rule one
man — about a planet of people
who hunted down a single indi-
lllmtrated by Schneoman
vidual in an effort to change his
life, yes, and even destroy him,
if it had to be. It’s a story about
one man against the entire Earth,
but with the positions reversed.
They’ve got a place in Manhat-
tan City that isn’t very well
known. Not known, I mean, in
the sense that the cell-nucleus
wasn't known until scientists be-
gan to get the general idea. This
was an undiscovered cell-nu-
cleus, and still is, I imagine. It’s
the pivot of our Universe. Any-
thing that shakes the world
comes out of it; and, strangely
enough, any shake that does
come out of it is intended to pre-
vent worse upheavals.
Don’t ask questions now. I’ll
explain as I go along.
The reason the average man
doesn’t know about this particu-
lar nucleus is that he’d probably
go off his nut if he did. Our of-
ficials make pretty sure it’s kept
secret, and although some nosy-
bodies would scream to high
heaven if they found out some-
thing was being kept from the
public, anyone with sense will
admit it’s for the best.
It’s a square white building
about ten stories high and it
looks like an abandoned hospital.
Around nine o’clock in the morn-
ing you can see a couple of dozen
ordinary looking citizens arriv-
ing. and at the end of the work-
day some of them leave. But
there’s a considerable number
that stay overtime and work un-
til dawn or until the next cou-
ple of dawns. They’re cautious
about keeping windows covered
so that high-minded citizens
won't see the light and run to the
controller’s office yawping about
overtime and breaking down Sta-
bility. Also they happen to have
permission.
Yeah, it’s real big-time stuff.
These fellas are so important,
and their work is so important
they’ve got permission to break
the one unbreakable law. They
can work overtime. In fact as
far as they’re concerned they
can do any damned thing they
please, Stability or no Stability
— because it so happens they’re
the babies that maintain Stabil-
ity. How? Take it easy. We’ve
got plenty of time — and I’ll tell
you.
It’s called the Prog Building
and it’s one of the regular news-
paper beats, just like the police
courts used to be a couple of
hundred years ago. Every
paper sends a reporter down
there at three o'clock. The re-
porters hang around and bull for
a while and then some brass hat
interviews them and talks policy
and economics and about how
the world is doing and how it’s
going to do. Usually it’s dull
stuff but every once in a while
something really big comes out,
like the time they decided to
drain the Mediterranean. They —
What?
You never heard of that? Say,
who is this guy anyway? Are
you kidding? From the Moon,
hey, all your life? Never been
to the home planet? Never
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
heard about what goes on? A
real cosmic hick. Baby, you can
roll me in a rug. I thought your
kind died out before I was born.
O. K., you go ahead and ask
questions whenever you want.
Maybe I’d better apologize now
for the slang. It’s part and par-
cel of the newspaper game. May-
be you won’t be able to under-
stand me sometimes, but I’ve got
a heart of gold.
Anyway — I had the regular
three o’clock beat at the Prog
Building and this particular day
I got there a little early. Seems
the Trib had a new reporter on
the beat, guy by the name of
Halley Hogan, whom I’d never
met. I wanted to get together
with him and talk policy. For
the benefit of the hermit from
the Moon I’ll explain that no
two newspapers in any city are
permitted to share the same
viewpoint or opinion.
I thought all you boys knew
that. Well, sure — I’m not kid-
ding. Look. Stability is the
watchword of civilization. The
world must be Stable, right?
Well, Stability doesn’t mean
stasis. Stability is reached
through an equipoise of oppos-
ing forces that balance each
other. Newspapers are supposed
to balance the forces of public
opinion so they have to repre-
sent as many different points of
view as possible. We reporters
always got together before a
story, or after, and made sure
none of us would agree on our
attitudes. You know — some
would say it was a terrible thing
and some would say it was a
wonderful thing and some would
say it didn’t mean a thing and
so on. I was with the Times and
our natural competitor and op-
position was the Trib.
The newspaper room in the
Prog Building is right next to
the main offices, just off the
foyer. It’s a big place with low-
beamed ceiling and walls done in
synthetic wood panels. There
was a round table in the center
surrounded by hardwood chairs,
109
but we stood the chairs along the
wall and dragged up the big
deep leather ones. We all would
sit with our heels on the table
and every chair had a groove on
the table in front of it. There
was an unwritten law that no
shop could be talked until every
groove was filled with a pair of
heels. That’s a newspaper man’s
idea of a pun.
I was surprised to find almost
everybody was in. I slipped into
my place and upped with my
feet and then took a look around.
Every sandal showed except the
pair that should have been oppo-
site me, so I settled back and
shut my eyes. That was where
the Trib man should have been
parked, and I certainly couldn’t
talk without my opposition be-
ing there to contradict me.
The Post said: “What makes.
Carmichael?"
I said: “Ho-hum — ”
The Post said : “Don’t sleep,
baby, there’s big things cookin’."
The Ledger said: “Shuddup,
you know the rules — ” He
pointed to the vacant segment of
table.
I said: "You mean the law of
the jungle."
The Record, who happened to
be the Ledger’s opposition, said :
“Old Bobbus left. He ain't com-
ing in no more."
“How come?”
"Got a Stereo contract. Do-
ing comedy scenarios."
I thought to myself: “Oi, that
means another wrestling match."
You see, whenever new opposi-
tion reporters get together,
they’re supposed to have a sym-
bolic wrestling match. I said
supposed. It always turns into
a brawl with everybody else hav-
ing the fun.
“Well, I said, "this new Ho-
gan probably doesn’t know the
ropes yet. I guess I’ll have to
go into training. Anybody seen
him? He look strong?” They
all shook their heads and said
they didn’t know him. “O. K.,
then let’s gab without him — ”
The Post said: “Your corre-
spondent has it that the pot’s
no
a-boilin’. Every bigwig in town
is in there.” He jabbed his
thumb toward the main offices.
We all gave the door a glance,
only, like I always did, I tried
to knock it in with a look. You
see, although all of us came
down to the Prog Building
every day, none of us knew what
was inside. Yeah, ’s’ fact. We
just came and sat and listened to
the big shots and went away.
Like specters at the feast. It
griped all of us, but me most of
all.
I would dream about it at
night. How there was a Hyper-
man living in the Prog Build-
ing, only he breathed chlorine
and they kept him in tanks. Or
that they had the mummies of
all the great men of the past
which they reanimated every
afternoon to ask questions. Or
it would be a cow in some dreams
that was full of brains and they'd
taught it to “moo” in code.
There were times when I
thought that if I didn't get up-
stairs into the Prog Building I’d
burst from frustration.
So I said: “You think they’re
going to fill up the Mediter-
ranean again?"
The Ledger laughed. He said :
“I hear tell they’re going to
switch poles. Nor.th to south
and vice versa.”
The Record said : “You don’t
think they could?”
The Ledger said : “I wish they
would — if it’d improve my
bridge.”
I said: “Can it, lads, and let’s
have the dope.”
The Journal said: “Well, all
the regulars are in— controller,
vice con and deputy vice con.
But there also happens to be
among those present — the chief
stabilizer.”
“No!”
He nodded and the others
nodded. “Fact. The C-S him-
self. Came up by pneumatic
from Washington."
I said: “Oh, mamma! Five’ll
get you ten they’re digging up
Atlantis this time.”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
The Record shook his head.
“The C-S didn’t wear a digging
look.”
Just then the door to the main
office shoved open and the
C-S came thundering out. I’m
not exaggerating. Old Groating
had a face like Moses, beard and
all, and when he frowned, which
was now, you expected lightning
to crackle from his eyes. He
breezed past the table with just
one glance from the blue quartz
he’s got for eyes, and all our
legs came down with a crash.
Then he shot out of the room so
fast I could hear his rep tunic
swish with quick whistling
sounds.
After him came the controller,
the vice con and the deputy vice
con, all in single file. They were
frowning, too, and moving so
rapidly we had to jump to catch
the deputy. We got him at the
door and swung him around. He
was short and fat and trouble
didn’t sit well on his pudgy face.
It made him look slightly lop-
sided.
He said: “Not now, gentle-
men.”
“Just a minute, Mr. Klang,” I
said, “I don’t think you're being
fair to the press."
“I know it," the deputy said,
“and I'm sorry, but I really can-
not spare the time.”
I said: “So we report to fif-
teen million readers that time
can’t be spared these dayB — ”
He stared at me, only I'd been
doing some staring myself and I
knew I had to get him to agree
to give us a release.
I said: “Have a heart. If any-
thing's big enough to upset the
stability of the chief stabilizer,
we ought to get a look-in.”
That worried him, and I knew
it would. Fifteen million people
would be more than slightly un-
nerved to read that the C-S had
been in a dither.
“Listen,” I said. “What goes
on? What were you talking
about upstairs?"
He said: “All right. Come
down to my office with me.
We’ll prepare a release.”
Only I didn’t go out with the
rest of them. Because, you see,
while I’d been nudging the dep-
uty I’d noticed that all of them
had rushed out so fast they'd
forgotten to close the office door.
It was the first time I’d seen it
unlocked and I knew I was go-
ing to go through it this time.
That was why I’d wheedled that
release out of the deputy. I was
going to get upstairs into the
Prog Building because every-
thing played into my hands.
First, the door being left open.
Second, the man from the Trib
not being there.
Why? Well, don’t you see?
The opposition papers always
paired off. The Ledger and the
Record walked together and the
Journal and the News and so on.
This way I was alone with no
one to look for me and wonder
what I was up to. I pushed
around in the crowd a little as
they followed the deputy out,
and managed to be the last one
in the room. I slipped back be-
hind the door jamb, waited a sec-
ond and then streaked across to
the office door. I went through
it like a shot and shut it behind
me. When I had my back
against it I took a breath and
whispered: “Hypcrman, here I
come!"
I was standing in a small hall
that had synthetic walls with
those fluorescent paintings on
them. It was pretty 6hort, had
no doors anywhere, and led to-
ward the foot of a white stair-
case. The only way I could go
was forward, so I went. With
that door locked behind me I
knew I would be slightly above
suspicion — but only slightly, my
friends, only slightly. Sooner
or later someone was going to
ask who I was.
The stairs were very pretty. I
remember them because they
were the first set I’d ever seen
outside the Housing Museum.
They had white even step.) and
they curved upward like a conic
section. I ran my fingers along
the smooth stone balustrade and
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
trudged up expecting anything
from a cobra to one of Tex Rich-
ard’s Fighting Robots to jump
out at me. I was scared to death.
I came to a square railed land-
ing and it was then I first sensed
the vibrations. I’d thought it
was my heart whopping against
my ribs with that peculiar bam-
barn-bam that takes your breath
away and sets a solid lump of
cold under your stomach. Then
I realised this pulse came from
the Prog Building itself. I
trotted up the rest of the stairs
on the double and came to the
top. There was a sliding door
there. I took hold of the knob
and thought: “Oh, well, they
can only stuff me and put me
under glass” — so I shoved the
door open.
Boys, this was it — that nucleus
I told you about. I’ll try to give
you an idea of what it looked
like because it was the most sen-
sational thing I’ve ever seen —
and I’ve seen plenty in my time.
The room took up the entire
width of the building and it was
two stories high. I felt as
though I'd walked into the mid-
dle of a clock. Space was liter-
ally filled with the shimmer and
spin of cogs and cams that
gleamed with the peculiar high-
lights you 6ee on a droplet of
water about to fall. All of those
thousands of wheels spun in
sockets of precious stone — just
like a watch only bigger — and
those dots of red and yellow and
green and blue fire burned until
they looked like a painting by
that Frenchman from way back.
Seurat was his name.
The walls were lined with
banks of Computation Inte-
graphs — you could see the end-
total curves where they were
plotted on photoelectric plates.
The setting dials for the Inte-
graphs were all at eye level and
ran around the entire circumfer-
ence of the room like a chain of
enormous white-faced periods.
That was about all of the stuff I
could recognize. The rest just
looked complicated and bewil-
dering.
That bam-bam-bam I told you
about came from the very center
of the room. There was a crystal
octahedron maybe ten feet high,
nipped between vertical axes
above and below. It was spin-
ning slowly so that it looked
jerky, and the vibration was the
sound of the motors that turned
it. From way high up there were
shafts of light projected at it.
The slow turning facets caught
those beams and shattered them
and sent them dancing through
the room. Boys — it was really
sensational.
I took a couple of steps in and
then a little old coot in a white
jacket bustled across the room,
saw me, nodded, and went about
his business. He hadn’t taken
more than another three steps
when he stopped and came back
to me. It was a real slow take.
He said : “I don’t quite — ’’ and
then he broke off doubtfully. He
had a withered, faraway look, as
though he’d spent all his life try-
ing to remember he was alive.
I said: "I'm Carmichael."
“Oh yes!” he began, brighten-
ing a little. Then his face got
dubious again.
I played it real smart. I said :
“I’m with Stabilizer Groatlng."
“Secretary?"
“Yeah."
“You know, Mr. Mitchel, he
said, “I can’t help feeling that
despite the gloomier aspects
there are some very encouraging
features. The Ultimate Datum
System that we have devised
should bring us down to surveys
of the near future in a short
time — ” He gave me a quizzical
glance like a dog begging for ad-
miration on his hind legs.
I said: “Really?"
“It stands to reason, After all,
once a technique has been de-
vised for pushing analysis into
the absolute future, a compara-
tively simple reversal should
bring it as close as tomorrow.”
I said: “It should at that” —
and wondered what he was talk-
ing about. Now that some of the
fright had worn off I was feel-
111
ing slightly disappointed. Here
I expected to find the Hyperman
who was handing down Sinai De-
crees to our bosses and I walk
into a multiplied clock.
He was rather pleased. He
said: “You think so?”
“I think so.”
“Will you mention that to Mr.
Groating? I feel it might en-
courage him — ”
I got even smarter. I said:
“To tell you the truth, sir, the
Stabilizer sent me up for a short
review. I’m new to the staff and
unfortunately I was delayed in
Washington.”
He said: “ Tut-tut , forgive
me. Step this way, Mr. . . . Mr.
Ahh — ”
So I stepped his way and we
went weaving through the clock-
works to a desk at one side of the
room. There were half a dozen
chairs b.ehind it and he seated me
alongside himself. The flat top
of the desk was banked with
small tabs and push buttons so
that it looked like a stenotype.
He pressed one stud and the
room darkened. He pressed an-
other and the bani-bam quick-
ened until it was a steady hum.
The octahedron crystal whirled
so quickly that it became a shad-
owy mist of light under the pro-
jectors.
“I suppose you know," the old
coot said in rather self-conscious
tones, “that this is the first time
we’ve been able to push our de-
finitive analysis to the ultimate
future. We’d never have done it
if Wiggons hadn't developed his
self-checking data system."
I said: "Good for Wiggons,"
and I was more confused than
ever. I tell you, boys, it felt like
waking up from a dream you
couldn’t quite remember. You
know that peculiar sensation of
having everything at the edge of
your mind so to speak and not
being able to get hold of it—
I had a thousand clues and infer-
ences jangling around in my
head and none of them would in-
terlock. But I knew this was
big stuff.
Shadows began to play across
112
the crystal. Off-focus images
and flashes of color. The little
old guy murmured to himself
and his fingers plucked at the
keyboard in a quick fugue of mo-
tion. Finally he said: “Ah!" and
sat back to watch the crystal. So
did I.
I was looking through a win-
dow in space, and beyond that
window I saw a single bright
star in the blackness. It was
sharp and cold and so brilliant it
hurt your eyes. Just beyond the
window, in the foreground, I saw
a spaceship. No, none of your
cigar things or ovate spheroids
or any of that. It was a space-
ship that seemed to have
been built mostly in after-
thoughts. A great rambling af-
fair with added wings and tow-
ers and helter-skelter ports. It
looked like it’d been built just to
hang there in one place.
The old coot said: “Watch
close now, Mr. Muggins, things
happen rather quickly at this
tempo.”
Quickly? They practically
sprinted. There was a spurt of
activity around the spaceship.
Towers went up and came down;
the buglike figures of people in
space armor bustled about; a lit-
tle cruiser, shaped like a fat nee-
dle, sped up to it, hung around a
while and then sped away. There
was a tense second of waiting
and then the star blotted out. In
another moment the spaceship
was blotted out, too. The crystal
was black.
My friend, the goofy profes-
sor, touched a couple of studs
and we had a long view. There
were clusters of stars spread be-
fore me, sharply, brilliantly in
focus. As I watched, the upper
side of the crystal began to
blacken. In a few swift mo-
ments the stars were blacked out.
Just like that. Blooey! It re-
minded me of school when we
added carbon ink to a drop un-
der the mike just to see how the
amoebae would take it.
He punched the buttons like
crazy and we had more and more
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
views of the Universe, and al-
ways that black cloud crept
along, blotting everything out.
After a while he couldn’t find
any more stars. There was noth-
ing but blackness. It seemed tc
me that it wasn’t more than an
extra-special Stereo Show, but it
chilled me nevertheless. I started
thinking about those amoebae
and feeling sorry for them.
The lights went on and I was
back inside the clock again. He
turned to me and said: “Well,
what do you think?”
I said : “I think it’s swell.”
That seemed to disappoint
him. He said: “No, no — I mean,
what do you make of it? Do you
agree with the others?”
“With Stabilizer Groating,
you mean?”
He nodded.
I said : “You’ll have to give me
a little time to think it over. It’s
rather — startling.”
"By all means,” he said, escort-
ing me to the door, “do think it
over. Although” — he hesitated
with his hand on the knob — “I
shouldn't agree with your choice
of the word ‘startling.’ After all,
it’s only what we expected all
along. The Universe must come
to an end one way or another."
Think? Boys, the massive
brain practically fumed as I went
back downstairs. I went out
into the press room and I won-
dered what there was about a pic-
ture of a black cloud that could
have upset the Stabilizer. I
drifted out of the Prog Building
and decided I’d better go down
to the controller’s office for an-
other bluff, so I didn’t drift any
more. There was a pneumatic
pick-up at the corner. I caught
a capsule and clicked off the ad-
dress on the dial. In three and a
half minutes I was there.
As I turned the overhead dome
back and started to step out of
my capsule, I found myself sur-
rounded by the rest of the news-
paper crowd.
The Ledger said : “Where you
been, my friendly, we needed
your quick brain but bad.”
I said: "I'm still looking for
Hogan. I can’t cover a thing un-
til I’ve seen him. What’s this
need for brains?”
“Not just any brains. Your
brain.”
I got out of the capsule and
showed my empty pocket.
The Ledger said: "We’re not
soaping you for a loan — we
needed interpolation.”
“Aha?"
The Record said: “The dope
means interpretation. We got
one of those official releases
again. All words and no sense.”
“I mean interpolation," the
Ledger said. "We got to have
some one read implications into
this barren chaff."
I said: "Brothers, you want
exaggeration and I’m not going
to be it this time. Too risky.”
So I trotted up the ramp to the
main floor and went to the dep-
uty vice’s office and then I
thought: “I've got a big thing
here, why bother with the small
fry?” I did a turnabout and
went straight to the controller’s
suite. I knew it would be tough
to get in because the controller
has live secretaries — no voders.
He also happens to have four re-
ceptionists. Beautiful, but
tough.
The first never saw me. I
breezed right by and was in the
second anteroom before 6he
could say: “What is it, pa-lee-
azz?” The second was warned
by the bang of the door and
grabbed hold of my arm as I
tried to go through. I got past
anyway, with two of them hold-
ing on, but number three added
her lovely heft and I bogged
down. By this time I was within
earshot of the controller so I
screamed: “Down with Stabil-
ity!”
Sure I did. I also shouted:
"Stability is all wrong! I'm for
Chaos. Hurray for Chaos!” and
a lot more like that. The recep-
tionists were shocked to death
and one of them put in a call for
emergency and a couple of guys
hanging around were all for bof-
fing me. I kept on downing with
Stability and fighting toward the
sanctum sanctorum et cetera and
having a wonderful time because
the three girls hanging on to me
were strictly class and I happily
suffocated on Exuberant No. 5.
Finally the controller came out
to see what made.
They let go of me and the con-
troller said: “What’s the mean-
ing of this? . . . Oh, it’s you.”
I said: “Excuse it, please.”
“Is this your idea of a joke.
Carmichael?”
“No, sir, but it was the only
quick way to get to you."
“Sorry, Carmichael, but it's a
little too quick."
I said : “Wait a minute, sir."
“Sorry, I'm extremely busy."
He looked worried and impatient
all at once.
I said : “You’ve got to give me
a moment in private.”
"Impossible. See my secre-
tary.” He turned toward his of-
fice.
“Please, sir — ”
He waved his hand and started
through the door. I took a
jump and caught him by the el-
bow. He was sputtering furi-
ously when I swung him around,
but I got my arms around him
and gave him a hug. When my
mouth was against his ear I
whispered: “I’ve been upstairs
in the Prog Building. I know!"
He stared at me and his jaw
dropped. After a couple of
vague gestures with his hands he
motioned me in with a jerk of
his head. I marched straight
into the controller’s office and al-
most fell down dead. The sta-
bilizer was there. Yeah, old Je-
hovah Groating himself, stand-
ing before the window. All he
needed was the stone tablets in
his arms — or is it thunderbolts?
I felt very, very sober, my
friends, and not very smart any
more because the stabilizer is a
sobering sight no matter how
you kid about him. I nodded po-
litely and waited for the con-
troller to shut the door. I was
wishing I could be on the other
side of the door. Also I was
wishing I’d never gone upstairs
114
into the Prog Building.
The controller said: “This is
John Carmichael, Mr. Groating,
a reporter for the Times.”
We both said: “How-d’you-
do?” only Groating said it out
loud. I just moved my lips.
The controller said: "Now,
Carmichael, what’s this about the
Prog Building?”
“I went upstairs, sir.”
He said: “You’ll have to speak
a little louder.”
I cleared my throat and said:
“I went upstairs, sir.”
“You what!”
“W-went upstairs.”
This time lightning really did
flash from the C-S's eyes.
I said: “If I've made trouble
for anyone, I’m sorry. I’ve been
wanting to get up there for years
and . . . and when I got the
chance today, I couldn’t resist
it — ” Then I told them how I
sneaked up and what I did.
The controller made a terrible
fuss about the whole affair, and
I knew — don’t ask me how, I
simply knew— that something
drastic was going to be done
about it unless I talked plenty
fast. By this time, though, the
clues in my head were beginning
to fall into place. I turned di-
rectly to the C-S and I said:
“Sir, Prog stands for Prognosti-
cation, doesn’t it?”
There was silence. Finally
Groating nodded slowly.
I said: “You’ve got some kind
of fortuneteller up there. You
go up every afternoon and get
your fortune told. Then you
come out and tell the press about
it as though you all thought it up
by yourselves. Right?”
The controller sputtered, but
Groating nodded again.
I said: “This afternoon the
end of the Universe was prog-
nosticated.”
Another silence. At last
Groating sighed wearily. He
shut the controller up with a
wave of his hand and said: “It
seems Mr. Carmichael does
know enough to make things
awkward all around.”
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
The controller burst out : “It’s
no fault of mine. I always in-
sisted on a thorough guard sys-
tem. If we had guarded the — ”
“Guards,” Groating inter-
rupted, “would only have upset
existing Stability. They would
have drawn attention and suspi-
cion. We were forced to take
the chance of a slip-up. Now
that it’s happened we must make
the best of it.”
I said : “Excuse me, sir. I
wouldn’t have come here just to
boast. I could have kept quiet
about it. What bothers me is
what bothered you?”
Groating stared at me for a
moment, then turned away and
began to pace up and down the
room. There was no anger in
his attitude; if there had been, I
wouldn’t have been aB scared as
I was. It was a big room and he
did a lot of pacing and I could
see he was coldly analyzing the
situation and deciding what was
to be done with me. That frigid
appraisal had me trembling.
I said : “I’ll give you my word
not to mention this again — if
that'll do the trick.”
He paid no attention — merely
paced. My mind raced crazily
through all the nasty things that
could happen to me. Like soli-
tary for life. Like one-way ex-
ploration. Like an obliterated
memory track which meant I
would have lost my twenty-eight
years, not that they were worth
much to anyone but me.
I got panicky and yelled:
“You can’t do anything to me.
Remember Stability — ” I began
to quote the Credo as fast as I
could remember: “The status
quo must be maintained at all
costs. Every member of society
is an integral and essential fac-
tor of the status quo. A blow at
the Stability of any individual is
a blow aimed at the Stability of
society. Stability that is main-
tained at the cost of so much as
a single individual is tantamount
to Chaos — ”
"Thank you, Mr. Carmichael,”
the C-S interrupted. “I have al-
r «ady learned the Credo.”
He went to the controller’s
desk and punched the teletype
keys rapidly. After a few min-
utes of horrible waiting the an-
swer came clicking back. Groat-
ing read the message, nodded
and beckoned to me. I stepped
up to him and, boys, I don’t
know how the legs kept from
puddling on the floor.
Groating said: “Mr. Carmi-
chael, it is my pleasure to ap-
point you confidential reporter
to the Stability Board for the du-
ration of this crisis.”
I said: “Awk!”
Groating said: “We've main-
tained Stability, you see, and in-
sured your silence. Society can-
not endure change — but it can
endure and welcome harmless ad-
ditions. A new post has been
created and you're it.”
I said: “Th-thanks.”
"Naturally, there will be an
advance in credit for you. That
is the price we pay, and gladly.
You will attach yourself to me.
All reports will be confidential.
Should you break confidence, so-
ciety will exact the usual pen-
alty for official corruption. Shall
I quote the Credo on that
point?”
I said: “No, sir!” because I
knew that one by heart. The
usual penalty isn’t pleasant.
Groating had me beautifully
hog-tied. I said: “What about
the Times, sir?”
"Why,” Groating said, “you
will continue your usual duties
whenever possible. You will
submit the official releases as
though you had no idea at all of
what was really taking place.
I'm sure I can spare you long
enough each day to make an ap-
pearance at your office.”
Suddenly he smiled at me and
in that moment I felt better. I
realized that he was far from be-
ing a Jehovian menace — in fact
that he’d done all he could to
help me out of the nasty spot my
curiosity had got me into. I
grinned back and on impulse
shoved out my hand. He took it
and gave it a shake. Everything
was fine.
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The C-S said: “Now that
you’re a fellow-official, Mr. Car-
michael, I’ll come to the point
directly. The Prog Building, as
you’ve guessed, is a Prognostica-
tion Center. With the aid of a
complete data system and a
rather complex series of Inte-
graphs we have been able to . . .
to tell our fortunes, as you put
it."
I said : “I was just shooting
in the dark, sir. I really don’t
believe it.”
Groating smiled. He said :
“Nevertheless it exists. Proph-
ecy is far from being a mystical
function. It is a very logical sci-
ence based on experimental fac-
tors. The prophecy of an eclipse
to the exact second of time and
precise degree of longitude
strikes the layman with awe.
The scientist knows it is the re-
sult of precise mathematical
work with precise data.”
“Sure,” I began, “but — ”
Groating held up his hand.
“The future of the world line,’’
he said, “is essentially the same
problem magnified only by the
difficulty of obtaining accurate
data — and enough data. For ex-
ample: Assuming an apple or-
chard, what are the chances of
apples being stolen?”
I said : “I couldn't say. De-
pends, I suppose, on whether
there are any kids living in the
neighborhood.”
“All right,” Groating said,
“that’s additional data. Assum-
ing the orchard and the small
boys, what are the chances of
stolen apples?”
“Pretty good.”
“Add data. A locust plague is
reported on the way.”
“Not so good.”
“More data. Agriculture re-
ports a new efficient locust
spray.”
“Better."
“And still more data. In the
past years the boys have stolen
apples and been soundly pun-
ished. Now what are the
chances?”
“Maybe a little less.”
“Continue the experimental
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
factors with an analysis of the
boys. They are headstrong and
will ignore punishment. Add
also the weather forecasts for
the summer; add the location of
the orchard and attitude of
owner. Now sum up: Orchard
plus boys plus thefts plus pun-
ishment plus character plus lo-
custs plus spray plus — ”
I said: “Good heavens!”
“You’re overwhelmed by the
detail work," Groating smiled,
“but not by the lack of logic. It
is possible to obtain all possible
data on the orchard in question
and integrate the factors into an
accurate prophecy not only as to
the theft, but as to the time and
place of theft. Apply this exam-
ple to our own Universe and you
can understand the working of
the Prognosis Building. We
have eight floors of data ana-
lyzers. The sifted factors are
fed into the Integrators and —
presto, prophecy!”
I said: “Presto, my poor
head !”
“You’ll get used to it in time."
I said: “The pictures?”
Groating said : “The solution
of a mathematical problem can
take any one of a number of
forms. For Prognosis we have
naturally selected a picturization
of the events themselves. Any
major step in government that is
contemplated is prepared in data
form and fed into the Integrator.
The effect of that step on the
world line is observed. If it is
beneficial, we take that step; if
not, we abandon it and search for
another — ”
I said: “And the pictures I
saw this afternoon?"
Groating sobered. He said:
“Up until today, Mr. Carmichael,
we have not been able to inte-
grate closer to the present that
a week in the future — or deeper
into the future than a few hun-
dred years. Wiggon’s new data
technique has enabled us to push
to the end of our existence, and
it is perilously close. You saw
the obliteration of our Universe
take place less than a thousand
years from now. This is some-
thing we must prevent at once."
“Why all the excitement?
Surely something will happen
during the next ten centuries to
avoid it.”
“What will happen?” Groat-
ing shook his head. “I don't
think you understand our prob-
lem. On the one hand you have
the theory of our society. Sta-
bility. You yourself have quoted
the Credo. A society which
must maintain its Stability at the
price of instability is Chaos.
Keep that in mind. On the other
hand we cannot wait while our
existence progresses rapidly to-
ward extinction. The closer it
draws to that point, the more
violent the change will have to
be to alter it.
“Think of the progress of a
snowball that starts at the top of
a mountain and rolls down the
slopes, growing in bulk until it
smashes an entire house at the
bottom. The mere push of a fin-
ger is sufficient to alter its fu-
ture when it starts — a push of a
finger will save a house. But if
you wait until the snowball gath-
ers momentum you will need vio-
lent efforts to throw the tons of
snow off the course.”
I said: “Those pictures I saw
were the snowball hitting our
house. You want to start push-
ing the finger now — ”
Groating nodded. “Our prob-
lem now is to sift the billions of
factors stored in the Prog Build-
ing and discover which of them
is that tiny snowball.”
The controller, who had been
silent in a state of wild suppres-
sion all the while, suddenly
spoke up. “I tell you it’s impos-
sible, Mr. Groating. How can
you dig the one significant fac-
tor out of all those billions?”
Groating said : “It will have to
be done.”
"But there’s an easier way,”
the controller cried. “I’ve been
suggesting it all along. Let’s at-
tempt the trial and error method.
We instigate a series of changes
at once and see whether or not
the future line is shifted. Sooner
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
117
or later we're bound to strike
something.”
“Impossible," Groating said.
"You’re suggesting the end of
Stability. No civilization is
worth saving if it must buy sal-
vation at the price of its princi-
ples."
I said: “Sir, I’d like to make
a suggestion.”
They looked at me. The C-S
nodded.
“It seems to me that you’re
both on the wrong track. You’re
searching for a factor from the
present. You ought to start in
the future.”
“How’s that?"
"It’s like if I said old maids
were responsible for more
clover. You’d start investigat-
ing the old maids. You ought to
start with the clover and work
backwards.”
"Just what are you trying to
say. Mr. Carmichael?”
“I'm talking about a posteriori
reasoning. Look, sir, a fella by
the name of Darwin was trying
to explain the balance of nature.
He wanted to show the chain of
cause and effect. He said in so
many words that the number of
old maids in a town governed
the growth of clover, but if you
want to find out how, you’ve got
to work it out a posteriori; from
effect to cause. Like this: Only
bumblebees can fertilize clover.
The more bumblebees, the more
clover. Field mice attack bum-
blebee nests, so the more field
mice, the less clover. Cats at-
tack mice. The more cats, the
more clover. Old maids keep
cats. The more old maids . . .
the more clover. Q. E. D.”
“And now," Groating laughed,
"construe.”
“Seems to me you ought to
start with the catastrophe and
follow the chain of causation,
link by link, back to the source.
Why not use the Prognosticator
backwards until you locate the
moment when the snowball first
started rolling?”
There was a very long silence
while they thought it over. The
controller looked slightly bewil-
dered and he kept muttering:
Cats — clover — old maids — But
I could see the C-S was really
hit. He went to the window and
stood looking out, as motionless
as a statue. I remember staring
past his square shoulder and
watching the shadows of the
helios flicking noiselessly across
the fa9ade of the Judiciary
Building opposite us.
It was all so unreal — this fran-
tic desperation over an event a
thousand years in the future;
but that’s Stability. It’s strictly
the long view. Old Cyrus Bren-
nerhaven of the Morning Globe
had a sign over his desk that
read: If you take care of the
tomorrows, the todays will take
care of themselves.
Finally Groating said: “Mr.
Carmichael, I think we’d better
go back to the Prog Building — ”
Sure I felt proud. We left the
office and went down the hall to-
ward the pneumatics and I kept
thinking : “I’ve given an idea to
the Chief Stabilizer. He's taken
a suggestion from met ” A cou-
ple of secretaries had rushed
down the hall ahead of us when
they saw us come out, and when
we got to the tubes, three cap-
sules were waiting for us.
What’s more, the C-S and the
controller stood around and
waited for me while I contacted
my city editor and gave him the
official release. The editor was
a little sore about my disappear-
ance, but I had a perfect alibi. I
was still looking for Hogan.
That, my friends, was emphati-
cally that.
At the Prog Building we hus-
tled through the main offices
and back up the curved stairs.
On the way the C-S said he
didn’t think we ought to tell
Yarr, the little old coot I’d hood-
winked, the real truth. It would
be just as well, he said, to let
Yarr go on thinking I was a con-
fidential secretary.
So we came again to that fan-
tastic clockwork room with its
myriad whirling cams and the re-
volving crystal and the hypnotic
bam-bam of the motors. Yarr
met us at the door and escorted
us to the viewing desk with his
peculiar absent-minded subservi-
ence. The room was darkened
again, and once more we watched
the cloud of blackness seep
across the face of the Universe.
The sight chilled me more than
ever, now that I knew what it
meant.
Groating turned to me and
said: “Well, Mr. Carmichael,
any suggestions?”
I said: “The first thing we
ought to find out is just what
that spaceship has to do with the
black cloud . . . don’t you think
so?”
“Why yes, I do.” Groating
turned to Yarr and said: “Give
us a close-up of the spaceship
and switch in sound. Give us
the integration at normal speed.”
Yarr said: “It would take a
week to run the whole thing off.
Any special moment you want,
sir?”
I had a hunch. “Give us the
moment when the auxiliary ship
arrives."
Yarr turned back to his switch-
board. We had a close-up of a
great round port. The sound
mechanism clicked on, running
at high speed with a peculiar
wheetledy-woodeldey - weedledy
garble of shrill noises. Suddenly
the cruiser shot into view. Yarr
slowed everything down to nor-
mal speed.
The fat needle nosed into
place, the ports clanged and
hissed as the suction junction
was made. Abruptly, the scene
shifted and we were inside the
lock between the two ships.
Men in stained dungarees,
stripped to the waist and sweat-
ing, were hauling heavy canvas-
wrapped equipment into the
mother ship. To one side two
elderly guys were talking
swiftly:
“You had difficulty?"
“More than ever. Thank God
this is the last shipment."
"How about credits?"
“Exhausted.”
“Do you mean that?”
118
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
"I do.”
“I can’t understand it. We
had over two millions left.”
“We lost all that through in-
direct purchases and — ’’
“And what?”
“Bribes, if you must know."
“Bribes?"
“My dear sir, you can’t order
cyclotrons without making peo-
ple suspicious. If you so much
as mention an atom today, you
accuse yourself."
“Then we all stand accused
here and now.”
“I’m not denying that."
“What a terrible thing it is
that the most precious part of
our existence should be the most
hated.”
“You speak of — ”
“The atom.”
The speaker gazed before him
meditatively, then sighed and
turned into the shadowy depths
of the spaceship.
I said : “All right, that’s
enough. Cut into the moment
just before the black-out occurs.
Take it inside the ship.”
The integrators quickened and
the sound track began its shrill
babble again. Quick scenes of
the interior of the mother ship
flickered across the crystal. A
control chamber, roofed with a
transparent dome passed repeat-
edly before us, with the darting
figures of men snapping through
it. At last the Integrator fixed on
that chamber and stopped. The
scene was frozen into a still-
photograph — a tableau of half a
dozen half-naked men poised
over the controls, heads tilted
back to look through the dome.
Yarr said: “It doesn’t take
long. Watch closely.”
I said : “Shoot.”
The scene came to life with a
blurp.
“ — ready on the tension
screens?”
“Ready, sir.”
“Power checked?”
“Checked and ready, sir."
“Stand by, all. Time?”
"Two minutes to go.”
“Good — ’’ The graybeard in
the center of the chamber paced
with hands clasped behind him,
very much like a captain on his
bridge. Clearly through the
sound mechanism came the thuds
of his steps and the background
hum of waiting mechanism.
The graybeard said: “Time?"
“One minute forty seconds.”
“Gentlemen: In these brief
moments I should like to thank
you all for your splendid assis-
tance. I speak not so much of
your technical work, which
speaks for itself, but of your
willingness to exile yourselves
and even incriminate yourselves
along with me — Time?”
“One twenty-five.”
“It is a sad thing that our work
which is intended to grant the
greatest boon imaginable to the
Universe should have been
driven into secrecy. Limitless
power is so vast a concept that
even I cannot speculate on the
future it will bring to our worlds.
In a few minutes, after we have
succeeded, all of us will be uni-
versal heroes. Now, before our
work is done, I want all of you
to know that to me you are al-
ready heroes — Time?”
“One ten."
“And now, a warning. When
we have set up our spacial parti-
tion membrane and begun the
osmotic transfer of energy from
hyperspace to our own there may
be effects which I have been un-
able to predict. Raw energy per-
vading our space may also per-
vade our nervous systems and
engender various unforeseen
conditions. Do not be alarmed.
Keep well in mind the fact that
the change cannot be anything
but for the better — Time?”
“Fifty seconds.”
“The advantages? Up to now
mathematics and the sciences
have merely been substitutes for
what man should do for himself.
So Fitz-John preached in his
first lecture, and so we are about
to prove. The logical evolution
of energy mechanics Is not to-
ward magnification and complex
engineering development, but to-
ward simplification — toward the
concentration of all those powers
within man himself — Time?”
"Twenty seconds.”
"Courage, my friends. This is
the moment we have worked for
these past ten years. Secretly.
Criminally. So it has always
been with those who have
brought man his greatest gifts.”
“Ten seconds.”
“Stand by, all.”
“Ready all; sir.”
The seconds ticked off with
agonizing slowness. At the mo-
ment of zero the workers were
galvanized into quick action. It
was impossible to follow their
motions or understand them, but
you could see by the smooth tim-
ing and interplay that they were
beautifully rehearsed. There was
tragedy in those efforts for us
who already knew the outcome.
As quickly as they had begun,
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
the workers stopped and peered
upward through the crystal
dome. Far beyond them, crisp in
the velvet blackness, that star
gleamed, and as they watched,
it winked out.
They started and exclaimed,
pointing. The graybeard cried:
“It’s impossible!”
“What is it, sir?”
"I—”
And in that moment blackness
enveloped the scene.
I said : “Hold it — ”
Yarr brought up the lights and
the others turned to look at me.
I thought for a while, idly watch-
ing the shimmering cams and
cogs around me. Then I said:
“It’s a good start. The reason I
imagine you gentlemen have
been slightly bewildered up to
now is that you’re busy men with
no time for foolishness. Now
I'm not so busy and very foolish,
so I read detective stories. This
is going to be kind of back-
ward detective story.”
“All right,” Groating said. “Go
ahead.”
“We’ve got a few clues. First,
the Universe has ended through
an attempt to pervade it with
energy from hyperspace. Sec-
ond, the attempt failed for a
number of reasons which we
can’t discover yet. Third, the
attempt was made in secrecy.
Why?"
The controller said: “Wny
not? Scientists and all that — ”
“I don’t mean that kind of
secrecy. These men were plainly
outside the law, carrying on an
illicit experiment. We must find
out why energy experiments or
atomic experiments were illegal.
That will carry us back quite a
few decades toward the present.”
"But how?"
“Why, we trace the auxiliary
cruiser, of course. If we can
pick them up when they’re pur-
chasing supplies, we’ll narrow
our backward search considera-
bly. Can you do it, Dr. Yarr?”
“It’ll take time.”
“Go ahead — we’ve got a thou-
sand years."
U9
It took exactly two days. In
that time I learned a lot about
the Prognosticator. They had it
worked out beautifully. Seems
the future is made up solely of
probabilities. The Integrator
could push down any one of
these possible avenues, but with
a wonderful check. The less
probable the avenue of future
was, the more off-focus it was.
If a future event was only re-
motely possible, it was pictured
as a blurred series of actions.
On the other hand, the future
that was almost positive in the
light of present data, was sharply
in focus.
When we went back to the
Prog Building two days later,
Yarr was almost alive in his ex-
citement. He said: “I really
think I’ve got just the thing
you’re looking for.”
“What’s that?"
“I’ve picked up an actual mo-
ment of bribery. It has addi-
tional data that should put us
directly on the track.”
We sat down behind the desk
with Yarr at the controls. He
had a slip of paper in his hand
which he consulted with much
muttering as he adjusted co-
ordinates. Once more we saw
the preliminary off-focus shad-
ows, then the sound blooped on
like a hundred Stereo records
playing at once. The crystal
sharpened abruptly into focus.
The scream and roar of a
gigantic foundry blasted our
ears. On both sides of the scene
towered the steel girder columns
of the foundry walls, stretching
deep into the background like
the grim pillars of a satanic
cathedral. Overhead cranes car-
ried enormous blocks of metal
with a ponderous gait. Smoke
—black, white and fitfully flared
with crimson from the furnaces,
whirled around the tiny figures.
Two men stood before a gigan-
tic casting. One, a foundryman
in soiled overalls, made quick
measurements which he called
off to the other carefully check-
ing a blueprint. Over the roar
120
of the foundry the dialogue was
curt and sharp :
“One hundred three point
seven."
“Check."
“Short axis. Fifty-two point
five.”
“Check."
“Tangent on ovate diameter.
Three degrees point oh five two."
“Check.”
“What specifications for outer
convolutions?"
“Y equals cosine X."
“Then that equation resolves
to X equals minus one half Pi."
“Check."
The foundryman climbed down
from the casting, folding his
thiee-way gauge. He mopped his
face with a bit of waste and eyed
the engineer curiously as the lat-
ter carefully rolled up the blue-
print and slid it into a tube of
other rolled sheets. The foun-
dryman said: "I think we did
a nice job."
The engineer nodded.
“Only what in blazes do you
want it for. Never saw a casting
like that.”
“I could explain, but you
wouldn’t understand. Too com-
plicated."
The foundryman flushed. He
said: “You theoretical guys are
too damned snotty. Just because
I know how to drop-forge
doesn’t mean I can’t understand
an equation.”
“Mebbeso. Let it go at that.
I'm ready to ship this casting
out at once."
As the engineer turned to
leave, rapping the rolled blue-
prints nervously against his calf,
a great pig of iron that had been
sailing up from the background
swung dangerously toward his
head. The foundryman cried
out. He leaped forward, seized
the engineer by the shoulder and
sent him tumbling to the con-
crete floor. The blueprints went
flying.
He pulled the engineer to his
feet immediately and tried to
straighten the dazed man who
could only stare at the tons of
iron that sailed serenely on. The
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
foundryman picked up the scat-
tered sheets and started to sort
them. Abruptly he stopped and
examined one of the pages
closely. He began to look
through the others, but before
he could go any further, the blue-
prints were snatched from his
hands.
He said: “What’s this casting
for?”
The engineer rolled the sheets
together with quick, intense mo-
tions. He said: “None of your
blasted business.”
“I think I know. That’s one-
quarter a cyclotron. You're get-
ting the other parts made up in
different foundries, aren’t you?”
There was no answer.
"Maybe you’ve forgotten Sta-
bilization Rule 93."
“I haven’t forgotten. You’re
crazy."
“Want me to call for official
inspection?"
The engineer took a breath,
then shrugged. He said : “I
suppose the only way to con-
vince you is to show you the
master drafts. Come on — ”
They left the foundry and
trudged across the broad con-
crete of a landing field to where
the fat needle of the auxiliary
ship lay. They mounted the
ramp to the side port and en-
tered the ship. Inside, the en-
gineer called : “It’s happened
again, boys. Let’s go!"
The port swung shut behind
them. Spacemen drifted up from
the surrounding corridors and
rooms. They were rangy and
tough-looking and the sub-nosed
paralyzers glinted casually in
their hands as though they'd
been cleaning them and merely
happened to bring them along.
The foundryman looked around
for a long time. At last he said :
“So it’s this way?”
“Yes, it’s this way. Sorry.”
“I'd like you to meet some of
my friends, some day — ”
“Perhaps we will.”
“They’ll have an easier time
with you than you’re gonna have
with me!” He clenched fists and
poised himself to spring.
The engineer said: “Hey —
wait a minute. Don't lose your
head. You did me a good turn
back there. I'd like to return
the favor. I've got more credit
than I know what to do with.”
The foundryman gave him a
perplexed glance. He relaxed
and began to rub his chin dubi-
ously.
He said: "Damn if this isn’t
a sociable ship. I feel friendlier
already — ”
The engineer grinned.
I called: “O. K., that’s enough.
Cut it," and the scene vanished.
"Well?” Yarr asked eagerly.
I said: "We’re really in the
groove now. Let's check back
and locate the Stabilization de-
bates on Rule 930." I turned to
the C-S. "What’s the latest rule
number, sir?"
Groating said: “Seven fifteen.”
The controller had already
been figuring. He said : “Figur-
ing the same law-production rate
that would put Rule 930 about
six hundred years from now. Is
that right, Mr. Groating?"
The old man nodded and Yarr
went back to his keyboard. I’m
not going to bother you with
what we all went through be-
cause a lot of it was very dull.
For the benefit of the hermit
from the Moon I'll just mention
that we hung around the Stabil-
ity Library until we located the
year S. R. 930 was passed. Then
we shifted to Stability headquar-
ters and quick-timed through
from January 1st until we picked
up the debates on the rule.
The reasons for the rule were
slightly bewildering on the one
hand, and quite understandable
on the other. It seems that in
the one hundred and fifty years
preceding, almost every Earth-
wide university had been blown
up in the course of an atomic-
energy experiment. The blow-
ups were bewildering — the rule
understandable. I’d like to tell
you about that debate because —
well, because things happened
that touched me.
The Integrator selected a cool,
u
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ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
smooth foyer in the Administra-
tion Building at Washington. It
had a marble floor like milky ice
flecked with gold. One side was
broken by a vast square window
studded with a thousand round-
bottle panes that refracted the
afternoon sunlight into showers
of warm color. In the back-
ground were two enormous doors
of synthetic oak. Before those
doors stood a couple in earnest
conversation — a nice-looking boy
with a portfolio under his arm.
and a stunning girl. The kind
with sleek-shingled head and one
of those clean-cut faces that look
fresh and wind-washed.
The controller said: “Why,
that’s the foyer to the Seminar
Room. They haven’t changed it
at all in six hundred years."
Groating said: “Stability!”
and chuckled.
Yarr said: “The debate is go-
ing on inside. I’ll shift scene — ”
“No — wait,” I said. “Let’s
watch this for a while." I don’t
know why I wanted to — except
that the girl made my pulse run
a little faster and I felt like look-
ing at her for a couple of years.
She was half crying. She said:
“Then, if for no other reason —
for my sake.”
“For yours!" The boy looked
harassed.
She nodded. “You’ll sweep
away his life work with a few
words and a few sheets of
paper.”
“My own work, too."
“Oh, but won’t you under-
stand? You’re young. I’m
young. Youth loves to shatter
the old idols. It feasts on the
broken shards of destruction. It
destroys the old ideas to make
way for its own. But he’s not
young like us. He has only his
past work to live on. If you
shatter that, he’ll have nothing
left but a futile resentment. I’ll
be pent up with a broken old man
who’ll destroy me along with
himself. Darling, I'm not say-
ing you’re wrong — I’m only ask-
ing you to wait a little.”
She was crying openly now.
The boy took her by the arm and
led her to the crusted window.
She turned her face away from
the light — away from him. The
boy said: “He was my teacher.
I worship him. What I’m doing
now may seem like treachery,
but it’s only treachery to his old
age. I’m keeping faith with
what he was thirty years ago —
with the man who would have
done the same thing to his
teacher.”
She cried: “But are you
keeping faith with me? You,
who will have all the joy of de-
stroying and none of the tedious
sweeping away the pieces. What
of my life and all the weary
years to come when I must cod-
dle him and soothe him and lead
him through the madness of for-
getting what you've done to
him?"
"You’ll spend your life with
me. I break no faith with you,
Barbara.”
She laughed bitterly. "How
easily you evade reality. I shall
spend my life with you — and in
that short sentence, poof !" — she
flicked her hand — "you dismiss
everything. Where will he live?
Alone? With us? Where?”
"That can be arranged.”
“You’re so stubborn, so pig-
headed in your smug, righteous
truth-seeking, Steven — for the
very last time — please. Wait un-
til he’s gone. A few years, that’s
all. Leave him in peace. Leave
us in peace."
He shook his head and started
toward the oaken doors. “A few
years waiting to salvage the
pride of an old man, a few more
catastrophies, a few more thou-
sand lives lost — it doesn’t add
up.”
She sagged against the win-
dow, silhouetted before the riot
of color, and watched him cross
to the doors. All the tears
seemed drained out of her. She
was so limp I thought she would
fall to the floor at any instant.
And then, as I watched her, I
saw her stiffen and I realized
that another figure had entered
the foyer and was rushing to-
ward the boy. It was an oldish
man, bald and with an ageless
face of carved ivory. He was
tall and terribly thin. His eyes
were little pits of embers.
He called: “Steven!”
The boy stopped and turned.
“Steven, I want to talk to you."
“It’s no use, sir!"
“You’re headstrong, Steven.
You pit a few years’ research
against my work of a lifetime.
Once I respected you. I thought
you would carry on for me as
I’ve carried on for the genera-
tions that came before me."
“I am, sir.”
“You are not.” The old man
clutched at the boy’s tunic and
spoke intensely. "You betray all
of us. You will cut short a line
of research that promises the sal-
vation of humanity. In five min-
utes you will wipe out five cen-
turies of work. You owe it to
those who slaved before us not
to let their sweat go in vain.”
The boy said: “I have a debt
also to those who may die.”
“You think too much of death,
too little of life. What if a
thousand more are killed— ten
thousand— in the end it will be
worth it."
“It will never be worth it.
There will never be an end. The
theory has always been wrong,
faultily premised."
“You fooll” the old man cried.
“You damned, blasted young
fool. You can’t go in there!"
“I’m going, sir. Let go."
“I won’t let you go in.”
The boy pulled his arm free
and reached for the doorknob.
The old man seized him again
and yanked him off balance. The
boy muttered angrily, set him-
self and thrust the old man back.
There was a flailing blur of mo-
tion and a cry from the girl. She
left the window, ran across the
room and thrust herself between
the two. And in that instant she
screamed again and stepped back.
The boy sagged gently to the
floor, his mouth opened to an O
of astonishment. He tried to
speak and then relaxed. The girl
dropped to her knees alongside
him and tried to get his head on
her lap. Then she stopped.
That was all. No Bhot or any-
thing. I caught a glimpse of a
metallic barrel in the old man’s
hand as he hovered frantically
over the dead boy. He cried:
“I only meant to — I — ” and kept
on whimpering.
After a while the girl turned
her head as though it weighed a
ton, and looked up. Her face
was suddenly frostbitten. In
dull tones she said: “Go away,
father.”
The old man said: "I only — ”
His lips continued to twitch, but
he made no sound.
The girl picked up the port-
folio and got to her feet. With-
out glancing again at her father,
she opened the doors, stepped in
and closed them behind her with
a soft click. The debating voices
broke off at the sight of her. She
walked to the head of the table,
set the portfolio down, opened
it and took out a sheaf of type-
script. Then she looked at the
amazed men who were seated
around the table gaping at her.
She said: “I regret to inform
the stabilizers that Mr. Steven
Wilder has been unavoidably de-
tained. As his fiancie and co-
worker, however, I have been
delegated to carry on his mission
and present his evidence to the
committee — ” She paused and
went rigid, fighting for control.
One of the stabilizers said :
"Thank you. Will you give your
evidence, Miss . . . Miss?”
"Barbara Leeds.”
"Thank you, Miss Leeds. Will
you continue?”
With the gray ashes of a voice
she went on: "We are heartily
in favor of S. R. 930 prohibiting
any further experimentation in
atomic energy dynamics. All
such experiments have been
based on — almost inspired by the
Fitzjohn axioms and mathe-
matic. The catastrophic detona-
tions which have resulted must
invariably result since the basic
premises are incorrect. We shall
prove that the backbone of Fitz-
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
John's equations is entirely in
error. I speak of
She glanced at the notes, hesi-
tated for an instant, and then
continued: “Fitzjohn's errors
are most easily pointed out if we
consider the Leeds Derivations
involving transfinite cardinals — ”
The tragic voice droned on.
I said: "C-cut.”
There was silence.
We sat there feeling bleak and
cold, and for no reason at all, the
icy sea-green opening bars of
Debussy’s “La Mer” ran through
my head. I thought: “I’m
proud to be a human — not be-
cause I think or I am, but be-
cause I can feel. Because hu-
manity can reach out to us across
centuries, from the past or fu-
ture, from facts or imagination,
and touch us — move us.”
At last I said: “We're moving
along real nice now.”
No answer.
I tried again: "Evidently that
secret experiment that destroyed
existence was based on this Fitz-
John’s erroneous theory, eh?"
The C-S stirred and said:
“What? Oh — Yes, Carmichael,
quite right.”
In low tones the controller
said : “I wish it hadn't hap-
pened. He was a nice-looking
youngster, that Wilder — prom-
ising.”
I said: “In the name of
heaven, sir, it’s not going to hap-
pen if we pull ourselves together.
If we can locate the very begin-
ning and change it, he’ll prob-
ably marry the girl and live hap-
pily ever after.”
“Of course — ” The controller
was confused. “I hadn’t real-
ized.”
I said: “We’ve got to hunt
back a lot more and locate this
Fitzjohn. He seems to be the
key man in this puzzle.”
And how we searched. Boys,
it was like worKing a four-
dimensional jig saw, the fourth
dimension in this case being
123
time. We located a hundred uni-
versities that maintained chairs
and departments exclusively de-
voted to Fitzjohn’s mathematics
and theories. We slipped back
a hundred years toward the pres-
ent and found only fifty and in
those fifty were studying the
men whose pupils were to fill the
chairs a century later.
Another century back and
there were only a dozen univer-
sities that followed the Fitz-
john theories. They filled the
scientific literature with tren-
chant, belligerent articles on
Fitzjohn, and fought gory bat-
tles with his opponents. How
we went through the libraries.
How many shoulders we looked
over. How many pages of equa-
tions we snap-photographed
from the whirling octahedron for
future reference. And finally
we worked our way back to Bow-
doin College, where Fitzjohn
himself had taught, where he
worked out his revolutionary
theories and where he made his
first converts. We were on the
home stretch.
Fitzjohn was a fascinating
man. Medium height, medium
color, medium build — his body
had the rare trick of perfect
balance. No matter what he was
doing, standing, sitting, walking,
he was always exquisitely poised.
He was like the sculptor’s ideali-
zation of the perfect man. Fitz-
john never smiled. His face was
cut and chiseled as though from
a roughish sandstone; it had the
noble dignity of an Egyptian
carving. His voice was deep, un-
impressive in quality, yet unfor-
gettable for the queer, intense
stresses it laid on his words. Al-
together he was an enigmatic
creature.
He was enigmatic for another
reason, too, for although we
traced his career at Bowdoin
backward and forward for all
its forty years, although we
watched him teach the scores and
scores of disciples who after-
ward went out into the scholastic
world to take up the fight for
him — we could never trace Fitz-
124
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
John back into his youth. It
was impossible to pick him up at
any point earlier than his first
appearance on the physics staff
of the college. It seemed as
though he were deliberately con-
cealing his identity.
Yarr raged with impotent fury.
He said: “It’s absolutely ag-
gravating. Here we follow the
chain back to less than a half
century from today and we’re
blocked — ” He picked up a small
desk phone and called upstairs
to the data floors. “Hullo, Cul-
len? Get me all available data
on the name Fitzjohn. Fitz-
JOHN. What's the matter, you
deaf? F-I-T-Z . . . That's right.
Be quick about it."
I said: "Seems as if Fitz-
john didn't want people to know
where he came from.”
“Well," Yarr said pettishly,
“that’s impossible. I'll trace him
backward Becond by second, if I
have to!”
I said: “That would take a
little time, wouldn't it?"
“Yes.”
“Maybe a couple of years?”
"What of it? You said we had
a thousand."
“I didn't mean you to take me
seriously, Dr. Yarr.”
The small pneumatic at Yarr’s
desk whirred and clicked. Out
popped a cartridge. Yarr opened
it and withdrew a list of figures,
and they were appalling. Some-
thing like two hundred thousand
Fitzjohns on the Earth alone.
It would take a decade to check
the entire series through the In-
tegrator. Yarr threw the figures
to the floor in disgust and swiv-
eled around to face us.
“Well?" he asked.
I said: “Seems hopeless to
check Fitzjohn back second by
second. At that rate we might
just as well go through all the
names on the list.”
“What else is there to do?”
I said: “Look, the Prognosti-
cator flirted twice with some-
thing interesting when we were
conning Fitz John’s career. It
was something mentioned all
through the future, too.”
“I don’t recall — " the C-S be-
gan.
“It was a lecture, sir," I ex-
plained. “Fitzjohn’s first big
lecture when he set out to refute
criticism. I think we ought to
pick that up and go through it
with a fine comb. Something is
bound to come out of it."
"Very well."
Images blurred across the spin-
ning crystal as Yarr hunted for
the scene. I caught fuzzy frag-
ments of a demolished Manhat-
tan City with giant crablike crea-
tures mashing helpless humans,
their scarlet chiton glittering.
Then an even blurrier series of
images. A city of a single stu-
pendous building towering like
Babel into the heavens; a catas-
trophic fire roaring along the
Atlantic seaboard; then a sylvan
civilization of odd, naked crea-
tures flitting from one giant
flower to another. But they were
all so far off focus they made
my eyes ache. The sound was
even worse.
Groating leaned toward me and
whispered: "Merely vague pos-
sibilities — ”
I nodded and then riveted my
attention to the crystal, for it
held a clear scene. Before us lay
an amphitheater. It was mod-
eled on the ancient Greek form,
a horseshoe of gleaming white-
stone terraces descending to a
small square white rostrum. Be-
hind the rostrum and surround-
ing the uppermost tiers of seats
was a simple colonnade. The
lovely and yet noble dignity was
impressive.
The controller said: “Hel-lo,
I don't recognize this."
“Plans are in the architectural
offices," Groating said. “It isn't
due for construction for another
thirty years. We intend placing
it at the north end of Central
Park—"
It was difficult to hear them.
The room was filled with the bel-
low and roar of shouting from
the amphitheater. It was packed
from pit to gallery with quick-
jerking figures. They climbed
across the terraces; they fought
up and down the broad aisles;
they stood on their seats and
waved. Most of all they opened
their mouths into gaping black
blots and shouted. The hoarse
sound rolled like slow, thunder-
ous waves, and there was a faint
rhythm struggling to emerge
from the chaos.
A figure appeared from behind
the columns, walked calmly up
to the platform and began ar-
ranging cards on the small table.
It was Fitzjohn, icy and self-
possessed. statuesque in his
white tunic. He stood alongside
the table, carefully sorting his
notes, utterly oblivious of the
redoubled roar that went up at
his appearance. Out of that tur-
moil came the accented beats of
a doggerel rhyme:
Neon
Crypton
Ammoniatcd
Fitzjohn
Neon
Crypton
Aminoniated
Fitzjohn
When he was finished, Fitz-
john straightened and, resting
the fingertips of his right hand
lightly on top of the table, he
gazed out at the rioting — un-
smiling. motionless. The pan-
demonium was reaching unpre-
cedented heights. As the chant-
ing continued, costumed figures
appeared on the terrace tops and
began fighting down the aisles
toward the platform. There were
men wearing metal-tubed frame-
works representing geometric
figures. Cubes, spheres, rhom-
boids and tesseracts. They
hopped and danced outlandishly.
Two young boys began unreel-
ing a long streamer from a drum
concealed behind the colonnade.
It was of white silk and an end-
less equation was printed on it
that read:
eia = 1 + ia — a2! + a3! — a4! . . .
and so on, yard after yard after
yard. It didn’t exactly make
sense, but I understood it to be
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
125
some kind of cutting reference tc
Fitzjohn's equations.
There were hundreds of others,
some surprising and many ob-
scure. Lithe contortionists, made
up to represent Mobius Strips,
grasped ankles with their hands
and went rolling down the aisles.
A dozen girls appeared from no-
where, clad only in black net
representing giant Aleph-Nulls,
and began an elaborate ballet.
Great gas-filled balloons, shaped
into weird topological manifolds
were dragged in and bounced
around.
It was utter insanity and ut-
terly degrading to see how these
mad college kids were turning
Fitzjohn’s lecture into a Mardi
Gras. They were college kids, of
course, crazy youngsters who
probably couldn’t explain the
binomial theorem, but neverthe-
less were giving their own form
of expression to their teachers’
antagonism to Fitzjohn. I
thought vaguely of the days cen-
turies back when a thousand
Harvard undergraduates did a
very similar thing when Oscar
Wilde came to lecture. Under-
graduates whose entire reading
probably consisted of the Police
Gazette.
And all the while they
danced and shouted and
screamed, Fitz-John
stood motionless, finger-
tips just touching the ta-
ble, waiting for them to
finish. You began with
an admiration for his
composure. Then sud-
denly you realized what
a breathtaking perform-
ance was going on. You
glued your eyes to the
motionless figure and
waited for it to move —
and it never did.
What?
You don’t think that
was so terrific, eh? Well,
one of you get up and
try it. Stand alongside a
table and rest your fin-
gertips lightly on the top
— not firmly enough to
bear the weight of your
arm — but just enough to make
contact. Maybe it sounds sim-
ple. Just go ahead and try it.
I’ll bet every credit I ever own
no one of you can stand there
without moving for sixty sec-
onds. Any takers? I thought
not. You begin to get the idea,
eh?
They began to get the same
idea in the amphitheater. At
first the excitement died down
out of shame. There’s not much
fun making a holy show of your-
self if your audience doesn’t
react. They started it up again
purely out of defiance, but it
didn’t last long. The chanting
died away, the dancers stopped
cavorting, and at last that en-
tire audience of thousands stood
silent, uneasily watching Fitz-
John. He never moved a muscle.
After what seemed like hours
of trying to outstare him, the
kids suddenly gave in. Spatters
of applause broke out across the
terraces. The clapping was
taken up and it rose to a thunder
of beating palms. No one is as
quick to appreciate a great per-
formance as a youngster. These
kids sat down in their seats and
applauded like mad. Fitzjohn
never moved until the applause.
too, had died down, then he
picked up his card and, without
preamble — as though nothing at
all had happened — he began his
lecture.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have
been accused of creating my
theory of energy-dynamics and
my mathematics out of nothing —
and my critics cry : ‘From noth-
ing comes nothing.’ Let me re-
mind you first that man does not
create in the sense of inventing
what never existed before. Man
only discovers. The things we
seem to invent, no matter how
novel and revolutionary, we
merely discover. They have
been waiting for us all the time.
“Moreover, I was not the sole
discoverer of this theory. No
scientist is a lone adventurer,
striking out into new fields for
himself. The way is always led
by those who precede us, and
we who seem to discover all,
actually do no more than add our
bit to an accumulated knowledge.
“To show you how small my
own contribution was and how
much I inherited from the past,
let me tell you that the basic
equation of my theory is not even
my own. It was discovered some
126
ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION
fifty years prior to this day —
some ten years before I was born.
"For on the evening of Febru-
ary 9, 2909, in Central Park, on
the very site of this amphithea-
ter, my father, suddenly struck
with an idea, mentioned an equa-
tion to my mother. That equa-
li °” : •i=(b/a)l7'ie/ | x..."
was the inspiration for my own
theory. So you can understand
just how little I have contributed
to the ‘invention’ of The Tension
Energy-Dynamics Equations — "
Fitzjohn glanced at the first
card and went on: “Let us con-
sider, now, the possible permuta-
tions on the factor e/jt, •'
I yelled: “That's plenty.
Cut I" and before the first word
was out of my mouth the con-
troller and the C-S were shout-
ing, too. Yarr blanked out the
crystal and brought up the lights.
We were all on our feet, looking
at each other excitedly. Yarr
jumped up so fast his chair went
over backward with a crash. We
were in a fever because, boys,
that day happened to be Febru-
ary 9, 2909, and we had just about
two hours until evening.
The controller said : “Can we
locate these Fitzjohns?”
“In two hours? Don’t be silly.
We don't even know if they’re
named Fitzjohn today."
“Why not?”
“They may have changed their
name — it’s getting to be a fad
nowadays. The son may have
changed his name as a part of
that cover-up of his past.
Heaven only knows why not — ”
"But we’ve got to split them
up — whoever they are."
The C-S said: “Take hold of
yourself. How are we going to
separate eleven million married
people? Didn’t you ever hear of
Stability?"
“Can’t we publish a warning
and order everybody out of the
park?”
“And let everybody know
about the Prog Building?” I
said. “You keep forgetting
Stability."
“Stability be damned! We
can’t let them have that conver-
sation — and if they do anyway,
we can’t let them have that boy!”
Groating was really angry. He
said : “You'd better go home and
read through the Credo. Even if
it meant the salvation of the Uni-
verse I would not break up a
marriage — nor would I harm the
boy.”
“Then what do we do?”
“Have patience. We’ll think
of something.”
I said: “Excuse me, sir — I’ve
got an idea.”
"Forget ideas,” the controller
yelled, “we need action.”
“This is action.”
The C-S said : “Go ahead, Car-
michael.”
“Well, obviously the important
thing is to keep all married cou-
ples out of the north sector of
Central Park tonight. Suppose
we get a special detail of police
together at once. Then we beat
through the park and get every-
one out. We can quarantine it —
set up a close cordon around the
park and guard it all night.”
The controller yelled: “It
may be one of the policemen.”
"O. K., then we pick the un-
married ones. Furthermore, we
give strict orders that all women
are to stay away."
The C-S said : “It might work
— it’ll have to work. We can’t
let that conversation take place.”
I said: “Excuse me, sir, do
you happen to be married?”
He grinned: “My wife’s in
Washington. I’ll tell her to stay
there.”
“And the controller, sir?”
The controller said: “She’ll
stay home. What about your-
self?”
“Me? Strictly bachelor.”
Groating laughed. “Unfortu-
nate, but excellent for tonight.
Come, let’s hurry.”
We took the pneumatic to
headquarters and let me tell you,
stuff began to fly, but high! Be-
fore we were there ten minutes,
three companies were reported
ready for duty. It seemed to
satisfy the controller, but it
didn't satisfy me. I said:
“Three’s not enough. Make it
five.”
“Five hundred men? You’re
mad."
I said: “I wish it could be
five thousand. Look, we’ve
knocked our brains out digging
through a thousand years for this
clue. Now that we've got it I
don’t want us to muff the
chance.”
The C-S said : “Make it five."
“But I don’t think we’ve got
that many unmarried men in the
service.”
“Then get all you can. Get
enough so they can stand close
together in the cordon — close
enough so no one can wander
through. Look — this isn’t a case
of us hunting down a crook who
knows we’re after him. We’re
trying to pick up a couple who
are perfectly innocent — who may
wander through the cordon.
We’re trying to prevent an acci-
dent, not a crime.”
They got four hundred and ten
all told. The whole little regi-
ment was mustered before head-
quarters and the C-S made a
beautifully concocted speech
about a criminal and a crime that
had to be prevented and hoopus-
gadoopus, I forget most of it.
Naturally we couldn’t let them
know about the Prog Building
any more than we could the citi-
zens — and I suppose you under-
stand why the secret had to be
kept.
You don't, eh? Well, for the
benefit of the hermit from the
Moon I’ll explain that, aside from
the important matter of Stabil-
ity, there’s the very human fact
that the Prog would be besieged
by a million people a day looking
for fortunetelling and hot tips
on the races. Most important of
all, there’s the question of death.
You can’t let a man know when
and how he’s going to die. You
just can’t.
There wasn’t any sense keep-
ing the news from the papers
because everyone around Central
Park was going to know some-
thing was up. While the C-S
was giving instructions, I slipped
into a booth and asked for multi-
dial. When most of the repor-
ers’ faces were on segments of
the screen, I said: “Greetings,
friendlies!”
They all yelled indignantly be-
cause I’d been out of sight for
three days.
I said: “No more ho-hum,
lads. Carmichael sees all and
tells all. Hot-foot it up to the
north end of Central Park in an
hour or so. Big stuff !”
The Journal said : “Take you
three days to find that out?"
“Yep."
The Post said: “Can it, Car-
michael. The last time you sent
us north, the south end of the
Battery collapsed."
“This is no gag. I’m giving it
to you straight."
“Yeah?” The Post was bel-
ligerent. “I say Gowanl”
“Gowan yourself,” the Ledger
said. “This side of the opposi-
tion is credible."
“You mean gullible."
I said: “The word this time is
sensational. Four hundred po-
lice on the march. Tramp-tramp-
tramp — the beat of the drum —
boots — et cetera. Better get mov-
ing if you want to tag along.”
The News gave me a nasty
smile and said: “Brother, for
your sake it better be good — be-
cause I’m preparing a little sen-
sation of my own to hand over.”
I said: "Make it a quick dou-
ble cross. Newsy. I’m in a
hurry,” and I clicked off. It’s
funny how sometimes you can't
get along right with wrong peo-
ple.
You know how fast night
comes on in February. The black-
ness gathers in the sky like a
bunched cape. Then someone
lets it drop and it sinks down
over you with swiftly spreading
black folds. Those dusky folds
were just spreading out toward
the corners of the sky when we
got to the park. The cops didn't
even bother to park their helios.
They vaulted out and left them
blocking the streets. In less
than half a minute, two hundred
were beating through the park in
a long line, driving everyone out.
The rest were forming the skele-
ton of the cordon.
It took an hour to make sure
the park was clear. Somehow,
if you tell a hundred citizens to
do something, there will always
be twenty who’ll fight you — not
because they really object to do-
ing what they’re told, but just
out of principle or curiosity or
cantankerousness.
The all-clear came at six
o’clock, and it was just in time
because it was pitch dark. The
controller, the C-S and myself
stood before the high iron gates
that open onto the path leading
into the rock gardens. Where
we stood we could see the jet
masses of foliage standing crisp
and still in the chill night. To
either side of us stretched the
long, wavering lines of police
glow lamps. We could see the
ring of bright dots drawn around
the entire north end of the park
like a necklace of glowing pearls.
The silence and the chill wait-
ing was agonizing. Suddenly I
said : "Excuse me, sir, but did
you tell the police captain to
O. K. the reporters?”
The C-S said' ”1 did, Car-
michael — ’’ and that was all. It
wasn’t so good because I’d hoped
we'd have a little talk to ease the
tension.
Again there was nothing but
the cold night and the waiting.
The stars overhead were like bits
of radium and so beautiful you
wished they were candy so you
could eat them. I tried to im-
agine them slowly blotted out,
and I couldn’t. It's impossible to
visualize the destruction of any
lovely thing Ther. I tried count-
ing the police lamps around the
park. I gave that up before I
reached twenty.
At last I said: "Couldn't we
go in and walk around a bit, sir?”
The C-S said: “I don’t see
why not — ”
So we started through the
gate, but we hadn’t walked three
128
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steps into the park when there
was a shout behind us and the
sharp sounds of running feet.
But it was only old Yarr run-
ning up to us with a couple of
cops following him. Yarr looked
like a banshee with his coat fly-
ing and an enormous muffler
streaming from his neck. He
dressed real old-fashioned. He
was all out of breath and just
gasped while the C-S told the
cops it was all right.
Yarr panted: “I . . . I — "
“Don't worry, Dr. Yarr, every-
thing is safe so far.”
Yarr took an enormous breath,
held it for a moment and then
let it out with a woosh. In natu-
ral tones he said : “I wanted to
ask you if you’d hold on to the
couple. I’d like to examine them
for a check on the Prognosti-
cator.”
Gently, the C-S explained:
“We're not trying to catch them.
Dr. Yarr. We don’t know who
they are and we may never know.
All we want to do is to prevent
this conversation.”
So we forgot about taking a
walk through the gardens and
there was more cold and more
silence and more waiting. I
clasped my hands together and
I was so chilled and nervous it
felt like I had ice water between
the palms. A quick streak of
red slanted up through the sky,
the rocket discharges of the
Lunar Transport, and ten sec-
onds later I heard the wham of
the take-off echoing from Gov-
ernor’s Island and the follow-up
drone. Only that drone kept on
sounding long after it should
have died away and it was too
thin — too small —
I looked up, startled, and there
was a helio making lazy circles
over the center of the rock gar-
dens. Its silhouette showed
clearly against the stars and I
could see the bright squares of
its cabin windows. Suddenly I
realized there was a stretch of
lawn in the center of the gar-
dens where a helio could land —
where a couple could get out to
stretch their legs and take an
evening stroll.
I didn’t want to act scared, so
I just said: “I think we’d bet-
ter go inside and get that helio
out of there.”
So we entered the gate and
walked briskly toward the gar-
dens, the two cops right at our
heels. I managed to keep on
walking for about ten steps and
then I lost all control. I broke
into a run and the others ran
right behind me — the controller,
the C-S, Yarr and the cops. We
went pelting down the gravel
path, circled a dry fountain and
climbed a flight of steps three at
a clip.
The helio was just landing
when I got to the edge of the
lawn. I yelled: "Keep off! Get
out of here!” and started toward
them across the frozen turf. My
feet pounded, but not much
louder than my heart. I guess
the whole six of us must have
sounded like a herd of buffalo.
I was still fifty yards off when
dark figures started climbing out
of the cabin. I yelled : “Didn’t
you hear me? Get out of this
park!”
And then the Post called:
“That you, Carmichael? What
goes on?”
Sure — it was the press.
So I stopped running and the
others stopped and I turned to
the C-S and said: “Sorry about
the false alarm, sir. What shall
I do with the reporters — have
them fly out or can they stay?
They think this is a crime hunt.”
Groating was a little short of
breath. He said: “Let them
stay, Carmichael, they can help
us look for Dr. Yarr. He seems
to have lost himself somewhere
in the woods.”
I said: "Yes, sir," and walked
up to the helio.
The cabin door was open and
warm amber light spilled out into
the blackness. All the boys were
out by this time, getting into
their coveralls and stamping
around and making the usual
newspaper chatter. As I came
up, the Post said: “We brung
THE PUSH OF A FINGER
129
your opposition along, Car-
michael — Hogan of the Trib.”
The News said: “Now’s as
good a time as any for the
wrasslin’ match, eh? You been
in training, Carmichael?” His
voice had a nasty snigger to it
and I thought: “Oh-ho, this
Hogan probably scales two
twenty and he’ll mop me up, but
very good — to the great satisfac-
tion, no doubt, of my confrere
from the News.”
Only when they shoved Hogan
forward, he wasn’t so big, so I
thought: “At a time like this —
let’s get it over with fast.” I
took a little sprint through the
dark and grabbed Hogan around
the chest and dumped him to the
ground.
I said : “O. K., opposition,
that’s — ”
Suddenly I realized this
Hogan’d been soft — soft but firm,
if you get me. I looked down at
her, full of astonishment and she
looked up at me, full of indigna-
tion, and the rest of the crowd
roared with laughter.
I said: “I'll be a pie-eyed
emu I"
And then, my friends, six
dozen catastrophes and cata-
clysms and volcanoes and hurri-
canes and everything else hit me.
The C-S began shouting and then
the controller and after a mo-
ment, the cops. Only by that
time the four of them were on
top of me and all over me, so to
speak. Little Yarr came tearing
up, screaming at Groating and
Groating yelled back and Yarr
tried to bash my head in with
his little fists.
They yanked me to my feet
and marched me off while the
reporters and this Halley Hogan
girl stared. I can’t tell you much
about what happened after that
-the debating and the discuss-
ing and the interminable sound
and fury, because most of the
time I was busy being locked
up. All I can tell you is that I
was it. Me. I. I was the one
man we were trying to stop. I —
innocent me. I was X, the mad
scientist and Y, the ruthless dic-
tator and Z, the alien planet — all
rolled into one. I was the one
guy the Earth was looking to
stop.
Sure — because you see if you
twist “I’ll be a pie-eyed emu”
enough, you get Fitz John’s equa-
ll0n i =(b/a) 77 i ./n . .
I don't know how my future
son is going to figure I was talk-
ing mathematics. I guess it’ll
just be another one of those inci-
dents that turn into legend and
get pretty well changed in the
process. I mean the way an in-
fant will say “goo” and by the
time his pop gets finished telling
about it it’s become the Pream-
ble to the Credo.
What?
No, I’m not married — yet. In
fact, that’s why I’m stationed up
here editing a two-sheet weekly
on this God-forsaken asteroid.
Old Groating, he calls it protec-
tive promotion. Well, sure, it’s
a better job than reporting. The
C-S said they wouldn’t have
broken up an existing marriage,
but he was going to keep us
apart until they can work some-
thing out on the Prognosticator.
No — I never saw her again
after that time I dumped her on
the turf, but, boys, I sure want
to. I only got a quick look, but
she reminded me of that Barbara
Leeds girl, six hundred years
from now. That lovely kind
with shingled hair and a clean-
cut face that looks fresh and
wind-washed —
I keep thinking about her and
I keep thinking how easy it
would be to stow out of here on
an Earth-bound freighter —
change my name — get a different
kind of job. To hell with Groat-
ing and to hell with Stability and
to hell with a thousand years
from now. I’ve got to see her
again — soon.
I keep thinking how I’ve got
to see her again.
NEW OPPORTUNITY IN
ACCOUNTING
— and how you can take advantage of it
p§g
This is the welcome message your
dollar will bring to thousands of
cancer sufferers in 1942. Help us
carry on the fight.
Enlist in your local field army now.
Buy package labels today.
If you. live in the Metropolitan Area,
address the New York City Cancer
Committee, 130 East 66th Street
AMERICAN SOCIETY FOR
THE CONTROL OF CANCER
New York, New York
THE END.
THIS VALUABLE NEW BOOK
CHEATED BV
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